Tiger Chronicles: Catch 22 Syndrome
by Crazy Rob
Summary: After narrowly avoiding summer school in a heavy-handed boot camp, Calvin begins to research this supposed place of reform... only to find a conspiracy devoted to barbaric ideology. Dark, and ranty against abusive boot camps and abusive adults.
1. Innocent until perceived guilty

Catch 22 Syndrome

…

: Catch 22 Syndrome :

…

Author Notes: The Catch 22 syndrome is my own personal term for the belief a child may justly or unjustly feel that no matter how they act or react in any given situation, punishment is inevitable- that there is no right answer. That no one is here to teach or guide; the teachers and authority figures they encounter exist only to hurt them.

Eventually, a sufferer may ask themselves "Why bother doing the 'right' thing if everything I do will be punished?"

IMPORTANT: I don't own Calvin and Hobbes, Foxtrot, or Curtis. Don't sue me, it's parody/tribute and I have no money.

…...

"_There is a disturbing mentality among today's youth, parents, and educators that a lack of wrongdoing, through inaction or action, means a youth should not be subject to punishment and judgment. When the sting of the slap, belt, and humiliation rituals used to break rebellious spirits are spared merely because a youth has done no wrong yet, the seed of evil festers. It teaches active avoidance of authority- which could very easily be the worst sin of them all."_

"_Children must be taught that there is to be no escape from pain, physical or emotional, and to embrace the slap, the jab, the put downs as we once so embraced the outdated hug and coddling of yesteryear. The message that must be sent is not 'Obey or be punished' but 'OBEY. OBEY. OBEY.' If this need be punctuated with blows, so be it. Our duty is not to create an environment of love- it is to create one of unquestioned obedience."_

Rod and Whip Research Log No. 1

…

CHAPTER 1: Innocent Until Perceived Guilty

Summer. The season where the sun decided to bathe the land in searing rays, turning sidewalks into griddles, metal slides into barbeques, and making one reconsider if the day was best spent outside.

Water had it's say in winter when all was frozen in ice. Earth spoke in spring in tones of flowers and new life emerging from a long white sleep. Wind roared in the fall with blustering storms and winds, ushering in the cold rains that would turn to ice soon.

Now Fire had its say. Water got in a word edge-wise with storms that prevented drought if the locals where lucky, but the star of the hour was the burning sphere of heat that shone down with unrelenting passion.

But all was not malevolent, for even as the rays blistered, there was an upside.

School is out. You are free, if for three months.

The last day of school. For some who know what their work will amount to, there is only anticipation of receiving well-earned high marks and looking forward to a summer of rest.

For others… not so much.

The story turns to Calvin.

Calvin is a boy, thirteen years of age. Blonde spiked hair that juts up as if to mock the earth's grip of gravity shifts a bit as he yawns.

He glares at a blaring alarm with a gaze that he very well wishes was infused with heat enough to reduce the irritation to boiling, smoldering plastic, silencing it. Having no such profound power, he is reduced to touching it. Flicking off the blaring electronic signal by hand.

Today was not a day he looked forward to.

Normally the end of school was a time where, in earlier years, he would rejoice and prance about in an energy-fueled madness. Not so this year.

Not after the ultimatum.

Grades 1-6 he had barely passed- if at all, having to retake tests and do generously granted extra credit assignments just to make the bare 70 mark of passing. That, his parents had told him at the beginning, would not suffice this year.

All Cs or above or he goes to summer school at some… educational camp. The sort of which parents sent their children when all else failed. Then to a stringent military school. No excuses.

A law set in unyielding stone, with voices that implied no indication of yielding. Calvin knew, by instinct, what threats were merely threats and what threats were 'go ahead. Test us. SEE WHAT HAPPENS.'

This was the latter.

Had he sacrificed? Yes. Damn all standards he had. Time he normally spent running amuck outside or watching tv or playing video games was spent on studying, trying to ward away an invisible grim reaper.

Had it done anything? He did not know. He had refused to look at any of his grades.

Any.

Why, specifically, he could not say.

He had begged his parents not to tell him what they were on report cards, and they obliged, reading them in private. Not breathing a word.

Did he believe it to be a ritual? Some sort of magic rite that would allow him to circumvent what he felt was an academic jinx of simply 'not getting it'?

Even he couldn't answer that.

His eyes turned to a stuffed tiger- or to most, what would be a stuffed tiger- to him, he who could see past the veil of mundane substance- this tiger was very real. Scars on his body testified to this.

This tiger now still rested, stomach twitching as it reclined belly up. Paws twitched and growls emerged as the tiger chased some dream-bound prey.

He could wake him- Hobbes- up to commiserate. No point, he decided. The tiger had helped- if by sheer virtue of being there for him- with the homework, the studying, the mindless droll of the assignments.

He had earned his rest.

Shower. Brush. Deodorant. Clothing. Cereal. No lunch today- the classes would end early.

Out the door he went- fire from the sun enveloped him, and his body began to sweat.

Out of the heat, and out of fear.

For to lose his freedom- and then receive an even more hellish environment next year- would be something out of a horror story for him.

At age six, he believed that summer vacation was an inalienable right- that under no circumstance could it be annulled.

Now, seven years later, he knew that freedom isn't free.

The bus came, a vehicle of yellow color.

He felt, as he stepped on, that perhaps Charon greeting him in a hearse might be more fitting.

…

Today was a day fit for a God, the man in the army fatigues decided.

Today a youth would be JUDGED.

PUNISHED.

A SENTENCE would be meted out, hundredfold penance for his crime. For this man was a JUDGE and a PROPHET and to these… miserably spoiled youths, he was a GOD.

He, Matthew, had watched him like an officer watches a petty thief about to steal. The boy was weak. His parents had laid down the law- shape up or be shipped out.

POINTLESS.

The boy had been a failure, was a failure, would be a failure until he was slain and born anew under HOLY teachings. Teachings in which lessons were administered with blows, with words that shattered the soul and all its rebellion.

JUSTICE.

He would handcuff the youth. He would tear him screaming from his parents to be whisked to a place of RETRIBUTION for his ignorance and sloth. He would do so in front of his SINFUL, LYING peers who had surely CHEATED their way to better grades.

The parents had said they would call him when and if the time was right. NO NEED.

He KNEW when the time was right. For he was GOD'S HOLY HAND.

The hand that would BREAK this boy.

For the clay that he was had hardened into a sinner, and thus he must be broken down and remade into an obedient servant of the worthy.

And if he was broken beyond repair, then so be it.

One less SINNER to taint the PERFECTION he and his associates had so delicately planned.

He took his handcuffs, placed them as inconspicuously as possible in his front pocket. Made sure that there was no way anyone looking at him could tell he was carrying handcuffs- he wanted this punishment swift, merciless, and without warning. Adjusted his military style beret as he parked in front of the junior high school.

It was time to pass judgment on the wicked.

…

"Is this necessary?"

The spiked haired youth asked the principal as he, his parents, his teachers sat about a table in the teacher's lounge, devoid of people save for those specifically involved in this… process.

"Tell me how badly I failed and let's get on with it." His tone was bitter. Self-critical.

He felt that his sacrifices weren't enough. Never would be. Never were, weren't now.

So why did these fools have to drag it out. "You flunk. Go to jail. Do not pass 7th grade, do not collect time needed to rest."

The principal, a bald, rotund man, shrugged with apathy.

"You know…"

His lips thinned into a smile perhaps fit for some Darth Sidious actor.

"…from a… student of your caliber, and looking at some of your work, I'd have thought you would at least…"

He paused.

"I don't know… check, maybe, to see if your doomsday scenario wasn't off?"

He placed a card on the table. With a flick, the card was propelled towards the youth.

Sighing, the youth picked it up.

Eyes arched. B's. All of them. Even the god-damned math course.

"Hmm."

Calvin tried to still, unsuccessfully, his shaking hand as he passed the card to his parents.

His father sighed. "…we tried to tell you… but you insisted…"

The youth's head fell forward onto the table with a bone-rattling smack. Nine months he'd engaged in this self-denial ritual to find out he was nowhere near the level of sucking he thought he was.

He made a resolution to find- and murder- whatever deity was in charge of cruel ironies. Preferably in a manner that employed an eggbeater.

His mother spoke.

"We need to call that representative, let him know that his services won't be needed."

She flashed a proud smile at her son, still tattooing the table slightly with his skull.

The principal continued shuffling through documents. "On the subject of that… was that the inspiration for… this?"

He slid a stack of stapled papers towards Calvin, who obligingly raised his head to examine them.

Ah, yes.

The rant.

Assigned to write about current events, he had chosen to write on the number of "Youth Correctional Facilities"- places that whisked away children who, for reasons often of violence or incorrigibility, had gone too far for their parents.

A great idea in theory- scare/wring the rebellion out. Kid grows up better for it. Problem solved.

Unfortunately, he'd found, there were cases where the kid often went nuts due to abuse in such camps- or died outright. In the paper, he'd combined facts scrounged together- along with a dose of his personal vitriol- to arrive at the conclusion that such resorts may 'fix' the problem temporarily, only to inflict long lasting bitterness, injury, psychosis, and even death in some more extreme cases.

Calvin looked it over, the shaking of his hands subsiding.

(Snap out of it, you fool. There's no hellhole waiting for you now.)

"Meh. I thought if I got sent off and died, then eventually someone would see this and pay attention to it."

He paused.

"That and my English teacher torpedoed my original idea of arguing for mandatory ninjutsu classes in place of gym."

The principal gave some sort of dry exhalation that might be interpreted as mirth, as the other adults present laughed.

"You'll forgive us if, after recent events, we don't openly teach assassination to our students." He remarked dryly.

Ah, yes. The school shootings. Bunch of cliques pick on kid. Kid tries to seek school's help. School ignores. More torment. Kid snaps, kills people. Wackos in suits blame video games and ignore the months of degradation and abuse. Rinse, lather, repeat-

Damn. That would have been a better topic. Cursed hindsight being 20/20.

Calvin made another mental note to murder the deity in charge of sub-par paper topics as well. With an eggbeater that was on fire.

The principal smiled. "Well, unless any of your other teachers can say to the contrary, I'd say you have, indeed, passed. I trust, Mr. Halgins, then that your son will stay enrolled?"

Calvin's dad nodded in affirmation. "He more than lived up to his part of the bar- er, demand." He corrected himself. "C'mon, kid, let's get some burgers and get you home so-"

BAM.

Calvin's trance was shattered as the door leading into the lounge opened violently, slamming into the wall, rattling the hinges, denting the drywall.. In the doorway, a man, clad in military fatigues, like those of a drill sergeant, tanned Caucasian skin, shaved head, piercing scowl.

The look of a man used to bringing harm on others with great zeal.

"Where is Calvin Halgins?"

The mother turned in her seat, startled by the sudden intrusion. Then she realized what this man was here for as the man's murderous gaze locked on Calvin, and he advanced…

"We told you we'd call YOU. And he's passed. Your services will not be needed."

…

Enter violently. Don't show pity or restraint.

Demand the suspect's location even though you know where he/she is.

Lock eyes with suspect. Approach, grab, restra-

"We told you we'd call YOU. And he's passed. Your services will not be needed."

…what?

No, this was a mistake. He did NOT lose a chance to judge and punish. Particularly not to this brat.

(Just for that, brat, you're getting broken ribs right off the bat when I get you out of here.)

His mind raced. Second thoughts, he believed. They were covering for him.

Ignoring protests he snatched up the report card. All Bs- they were telling the truth. Desperately he searched- behavior was satisfactory, minimal absences.

Nothing usable. Nothing to justify dragging him out- particularly now that the parents had expressed the slightest disapproval. His mind raced. Something had to be done to make sure the pain this child had coming was delivered in full.

"He's got the grades," he admitted, making sure his tone was iron-strong, the condemnation dripping off it- there could be no commendation here, that gave the child strength- "but he obviously did it so avoid an undesirable outcome. In my opinion, that deserves FAR WORSE punishment."

The boy spoke. "I obeyed what was asked of me to avoid being punished, therefore I should be punished even worse?" His tone was condescending. "By that logic, anyone who has driven under the speed limit, obeyed a 'do not smoke' sign, or followed any rule for fear of the penalty should be locked up."

It took all Matthew's reserves of restraint to refrain from breaking the boy's neck. HOW DARE HE CORRECT HIM!

The principal nodded. "He's right- his parents agreed the condition was satisfied, even beyond what we expected. Moreover, I don't appreciate you barging in here when I specifically had a 'do not disturb sign' hung on the door- much less you abusing said door as an intimidation tactic."

Matthew jerked as if he were cut. They agreed with the boy? Took his side? How could they betray a cause as noble as his? Reaching again into an ever dwindling bag of arguments, Matthew composed himself.

"The temporary satisfaction of goals easily achieved by a trained monkey aside-"

(Insult the suspect, allow no compliment. The suspect is beyond redemption.)

"-a lesson must be taught. Life is not always fair, and some mistakes must be paid for more than once. He needs to learn that he is not only accountable for his actions, but his potential actions- and inactions- as well."

It was a hole-ridden argument, and even as it left his lips he cursed himself.

"So- punish someone unfairly to teach them life is unfair, thus undermining law and rules as a means to prevent disorder, perverting them into a tool for thugs like yourself to hit people and say "because I said so". Make everyone accountable for what they might have and might have not done. Bravo, sir- truly you will be the one to usher in a utopia for child molesters and wife beaters." The boy spoke again. Unfazed.

There was no fear in those eyes. Only a vague sense of justification and confidence. A calm look.

One that a good hard punch would wipe off his face, lawsuit be damned- his hand whipped out to break the punk's jaw-

PAIN.

The little bastard had dodged, and now his hand was lodged in the back of a metal folding chair, bleeding as shards of metal gashed him.

For four painful seconds he suffered as he extracted his bleeding, broken right hand, yanked out the single shard of metal still embedding in his middle finger, turned to hit the kid with his good left hand-

Oh.

Cops. Two of them- with drawn pistols.

The principal spoke. "Now, normally I don't take this sort of precaution- having two officers of the law stand by in case someone like you gets out of hand, but after doing a bit of research on your particular branch of youth correction- 'Rod and Whip' re-education center, correct? Blunt advertising, that- You have quite a reputation for injuring your charges… a few lawsuits against you that never made it to court for reasons such as "Plaintiff failed to show", last minute droppings of the suits. I don't consider myself paranoid, sir, but that raises a few alarm bells, and I really don't want to make this- my school- a shopping market for persons of- as you have proven by your own actions- a dubious nature, where they can simply come and arrest children who they deem menaces to society."

Matthew looked at the officers in desperation, hoping to find some sympathy for his mission in their eyes. He found none. He looked to the teachers. He saw only looks of revulsion and horror.

One of the officers pushed him against the wall and handcuffed him. Patted him down, found the handcuffs. Found his taser and mace that they weren't supposed to. Found the single shot pistol under his left pant leg.

Damn, damn, damn, damn. If he had actively tried to botch this collection, he couldn't have had it foul up worse.

And worst of all- the insult to injury- the boy **was not scared. **He did not hide behind his mother or father. He didn't shake with fear. He just looked at the man with an amused expression.

"Handcuffs? Mace? A Taser? Guns?" The boy asked, as if was all going to some script he'd written. "A bit excessive for a student with no record of physical violence or lawbreaking. What is that in legal terms- possession of a deadly weapon? And let's not forget it's on school grounds- with intent to kidnap a minor…"

Matthew made a suggestion to Calvin that was anatomically impossible, followed by several colorful expletives.

The principal sighed. "All the charm of a compost heap but not nearly the intelligence. Officers, if you would get this man off my property?"

The two policemen obligingly dragged Matthew off the campus, a trail of blood drops forming in his wake.

One of the teachers- a blonde in charge of Calvin's English assignments, sighed.

"You know… here I thought you were exaggerating when you wrote how the people in charge of those kinds of places have power issues…"

Calvin shrugged, lowered his head as he prepared to head out with his parents.

"So did I."

…

After dinner out and many, many phone calls from curious students who overheard the commotion, Calvin lay in bed, Hobbes curling up beside him, stretching to easily one and a half times his length, revealing deadly sharp fangs.

"…why do some many adults become such…"

Calvin paused.

"…assholes?"

Hobbes shrugged.

"Some had lousy childhoods. Some have rotten adulthoods. Others have issues- lots of them. And some… some are just plain out and out rotten- being mean for the sake of mean."

Calvin sat up.

"He **wanted** to hurt me, Hobbes. I felt it. Even though he found out I did what I was supposed to, he still wanted to hurt me."

Sharp young eyes took in the tensing of tiger muscles, the unsheathing of claws, a low growl. Protective instincts were flaring in the feline's mind.

"He's gone. For good. You don't do that sort of thing in the real world and get let off the hook."

Calvin turned to his friend sleepily. "…you sure?"

"Of course."

"_No sane person would let him walk free again."_

…

Alas, there is a dearth of both sanity and common sense in the world as of today.

Matthew walked out of his jail cell a free man on bond for 200 dollars, no questions asked, alongside a blonde-haired male in an Italian suit.

Both were silent until they clambered into the sports car.

"Generally, our guidelines call for dismissal for a gaffe this big." The blonde spoke icily, turning the ignition for his car.

"It was one stinking kid." Matthew growled, though the excuse was hollow to even him- one kid meant everything. Particularly that kid- they were going to make an example of him- show that they COULD force someone to believe they were worthless, believe they were fit only to obey without question.

"One kid who had a principal, teachers, and parents stand up for him. The kid did a paper on us. You just blew our valuable time JUSTIFYING everything he wrote!" the blonde's voice rose.

"Wrote?" Matthew's voice reflected confusion, uncertainty. The boy… Calvin… had written about them?

"Thanks to your bravado, if he leaks his story to the press, some freaking forum on the internet, he's got proof and witnesses to back it up. It's _dissent_, Matthew, and dissent is what will kill R&W if he's allowed to make his story known. And to top it all off, the zit-pus icing on the dogshit cake, you let two cops witness you. Two cops- plural. Two people in law that would VERY much like to be credited with taking down someone society doesn't understand. Furthermore…"

"Harry, I get the goddamn point. Now tell me what we do." Matthew's tone was impatient- yes, mistakes were made- but the longer they spent straining over who screwed up where, the longer the kid had.

"We have to break him."

Matthew snorted. "You expect him to recant? Not going to happen easily. And how do we get a hold of him? Any funny business, and people will know something's up."

Harry made some sort of contemplative noise.

"We have to force him to come willingly, then we must attack him mentally. Physical persuasion to a minimum." Matthew continued. "His parents know something's up already…"

Harry gave him a icy look. "And who's fault is that? Now, we can't just leave him- he's seen us in action and he was…" Harry, here, had difficulty saying the next word, straining… "…innocent according to their laws." Turning the key in the ignition, he checked to see if any cop cars were following.

Harry didn't look at his partner as he drove out of the precinct parking lot and onto the road, cutting off two people and raising a middle finger to add insult upon insult. "We didn't come this close to a revolution just to be taken down by one kid getting away."

…

OMNIJOURNAL ENTRY 001 BY USER: CALVINOMEGA

Hey, adults, remember us? The kids?

That thing you decent grownups feed and clean and tell to go to school?

FYI for all of you: allowing some cultist-level wacko to kidnap your kid and 'reprogram' him or her just because you found their grades – numerical, fallible interpretations of your child's ability to perform- are low isn't exactly parenting.

Rather, it is a very risky, potentially lethal way of telling your child you've decided to let someone else deal with them over what, to them, seems like a relatively small problem.

At the very best, your child will likely return from such an experience with the problem 'fixed'- he or she will get good grades to avoid that sort of hell again. But there will be resentment. They will not look to you as parents, but "The people who sent me to hell". They will not come to you for help, out of fear you'll use the quick fix of 'ship them off to god-knows-where'.

In the worst case scenario, your kid may not come home at all. You may get a call that 'something went wrong', 'your child was unable to perform and is in medical care', or 'disciplinary action got out of hand'. Then the call that informs you're your child is dead, followed immediately by a notification that the release form you signed absolved the facility of responsibility.

Remember that these places have release forms for a reason- there is a good chance, with all the physical abuse- both from forced exercise and outright blows- your kid may come home injured or not at all.

-END ENTRY


	2. Guilty by sloth

Chapter 2: Guilty by Sloth

DISCLAIMER #1: I don't own any of the comics mentioned.

DISCLAIMER #2: This story is about uncomfortable issues such as abuse in correctional facilities and the consequences of bad choices on the part of parent and child. If this sort of thing offends you, or you're the sort of person who can't watch an entire episode of Law and Order SVU, leave now. Hit the back button. We'll both be better off for it. You have been warned.

........................................................................................................................................................................

Some people in charge find it easier to condemn than examine the facts- who needs the truth when you've got a scapegoat for your problems?

The scary part is it works all too well on too many people. Few people want to admit the problem goes beyond a few select persons, that it will take effort to remedy, or that maybe part of the problem looks back at them from the mirror every morning.

........................................................................................................................................................................

"_The one thing a minister of our justice must remember, as all of our members and those sympathetic to us must remember, is that we are not here to restore. We are not here to guide. We are not here to aid or help or comfort. These children of this day are evil from birth, and must be punished. Punishment is the primary purpose, Unquestioned Obedience second. Remodeling a child to fit our code so as to be acceptable in the new world we will bring is at best an ancillary goal, and only after careful consideration of a subject by our highest overseers is the process of neoidentification to be considered."_

"_This being said, there are, as said earlier, adults who are intrigued by our ideas and wish to become one of us. Wary as we must ever be of intruders and interlopers, Rod and Whip constantly needs new disciplinarians to usher in our ideals."_

"_This does not, however, give our members the authority to invite anyone they see swat or slap their child. In fact, parents are rarely if ever fit to wholly understand the virtues of perpetual punishment and may even sympathize with both captives and research subjects. More appropriate potential members are those who have taught and been dismissed for use of excessive force, those society has branded 'child molesters' or 'child abusers', those who society has cast out for being 'abusive' or 'violent'. These sorts of people understand all too well the repercussions that come about from a light-handed society, and, more often than not, are willing to learn what we teach."_

-Rod and Whip Manual, Introduction

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Mary Gathwells did not consider herself an evil person.

When she began teaching at age 30 at a private, highly-religious Christian elementary school, she realized that pain was an excellent discipline tool, attention getter, and memory improver. It was also efficient- one did not need waste time explaining why a child was wrong when one could simply backhand or paddle them.

The pain was the explanation- if they had been doing what was right, she wouldn't have had to hit them.

Repercussions occurred when mistakes were made, and the repercussions had to be _painful_- she did not consider a student properly punished if they were limping, wincing, and sobbing inconsolably for several days. More often than not, her tools- belts, paddles, and her personal brew of insults and soul-shattering words she'd carefully formulate to break the spirit of her target got the desired effect. It was, she admitted, fun while it lasted.

Then the parents begin to complain. It was small at first, and she'd brushed it off as a single couple who did not see the beauty in the control she had. "There's idiots in EVERY group", she'd assured herself. They would learn to accept the consequences of their children's failures.

Then, multiple parents. Students rioting when she tried to punish a child in front of a class, screaming and yelling for help, teachers pulling her off of her target before blow ten…

And ten blows with a paddle did not suffice as sufficient punishment. No way, no how. But ruining a punishment session wasn't enough, no, the idiots went beyond taking away her control!

They called her a child abuser!

She'd made her rebuttal that she did not do such disgusting things, because she was in no way attracted to children- she wasn't a sicko, she was a disciplinarian! An artist of punishments! She'd explained that the more humiliating and debilitating a punishment session was, the less chance a child would repeat the sin! That the student's only choice was to accept the consequences!

Her words fell on unsympathetic juror ears, ears already clogged by the sobbing testimony of those she'd punished. Eyes blinded with tears of outrage as they viewed medical pictures depicting the injuries that were the result of her righteous discipline.

Were they all _insane?!_ Punishment was supposed to leave permanent scars, permanent consequences for falling short in the judge's- that was her- eyes! Everlasting reminders to say _"You fucked up, bad, and now you hurt forever. Don't do that again. Accept the consequences."_

But not even the judge was sympathetic to her holy mission.

Ten years? In prison?

_For doing her job?_

What was it the principal had said during the trial? "We hired you to teach children- you humiliated them. We hired you to discipline them, if need be- you maimed them. We hired you to care for children- and you beat them to the point where they couldn't even sit for days at a time."

Educating them? Teaching them the sciences and arts? It was meaningless! The children of the day couldn't understand concepts of math and art and religion- generations of lax discipline had seen to that! What children needed- _NEEDED!-_ was to be taught to accept the consequences doled out without question and with a contrite heart. To accept they are beyond redemption and thus must be punished.

Her first week in prison was not pleasant- the other inmates had been infected by the insanity spouted by those fools, and beat her to a pulp, breaking bones, her face… her beautiful judge's face was ruined…

She wondered if there was anyone who understood her methods.

Then, she'd found the society of the Rod and Whip. Or, was it more that they had found her?

And they had shown her the FLAW in her plan, humbling her. It was a moment of zen for her, a lightning bolt of clarity that tore apart the mist that had obscured her to the reasons others had rejected her plan.

It was not that she had gone too far. She hadn't gone far ENOUGH.

In refusing to kill them, she had shown weakness, and they, the ones who had condemned her, had attacked her for it. Like sharks drawn to bleeding prey. They did not lie to her, she would give Rod and Whip that. They had warned her that those willing to seek retribution on the monsters of the day would be seen as monsters themselves. They had told her upfront hers would have to be a quiet campaign at first.

"When the brats are cowed into obedience, when the world's children obey us not out of want of reward or fear of punishment, but simply because they are made to obey, then we can be open. Then they will see us as messiahs. Then we will be loved."

And so she'd begun. She'd started small, first. Her ideas flawed, her concepts outdated, Rod and Whip had to instruct her in the arts of finding her prey's weaknesses. They taught her psychology, to find the weak points in a youth's psyche and how to break them not just once, but many times over. They had her educated in physiology and anatomy- showing her pressure points where maximum pain could be inflicted, where crippling injuries could be delivered.

They weren't short on 'practice dummies', or the Rod and Whip's term for many of the children who were sent to the facility by their parents for discipline. Thanks to an entire team devoted to analyzing injuries and inventing creative explanations as to how the injury occurred due to the child's own fault, or the fault of another child, and yet another team devoted to ensuring prosecution would end in failure- by means legal or not- there was no need to pull any blows during research exercises.

She had her own room now- small, functional, a place to rest in between practice and her duties to Rod and Whip.

Finally, after all these years of trials and tribulations, she understood- if the children would not accept the consequences, she and Rod and Whip would bring consequences to them.

A page came over the intercom. Something about an assembly, commanding all personnel to drop all current activities and report.

Mary examined her face in the mirror. Once beautiful, once perfect, it now was a marred visage, torn apart by fist and foot and nail by fellow prisoners outraged over her righteous crusades.

Battle scars. No point in dwelling on them.

She walked briskly to the meeting room, already suspecting what the cause for the abrupt gathering was- recently a student had been signed up for the Rod and Whip's Boot camp façade, only to have met his parent's stipulations and got off scot-free. The agent responsible for the gathering did not follow protocol, getting himself arrested and casting suspicion on Rod and Whip's boot camp division. To make matters worse, the child in question had not shown fear, had not cowered, and now had posted criticisms of the boot camp ideal on the internet.

Other organizations might allow such babbling to go unquestioned, but Rod and Whip had strict protocol for such assaults on their name- Mary knew too well the danger letting small protests grow into large ones posed.

But she was not worried- from what she had been told, many had come before this boy- young and old- and their bodies were never found. The boy was a problem, yes- but a minor one- a stubborn pebble to be ground to dust underneath the march of the saints of Rod and Whip.

Death, she felt, would not be too harsh.

There were consequences for talking back.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Calvin opened his eyes but a crack. 8:01 AM.

"Hobbes?"

A brief growl and movement of covers answered him.

"I didn't dream up that bit about graduating from school did I?"

"No."

"Then I don't have to get up, do I?"

"Not unless you keep yakking." Hobbes answered, clearly needing a solid 12 more hours of beauty sleep.

Calvin yawned. It wasn't a dream, and he didn't have to get up. He settled back in for more dreams in which he wielded a lightsaber and fought ninja-demons over lakes of molten lava…

Three explosions in succession made him clench his teeth and wince. At first he'd thought a small salvo of rockets had been launched into the side of his house. Then, as he realized that it was simply his grogginess amplifying the noise, he lifted his head up from under the covers.

"Morning sunshine!" his mom called as she entered.

Calvin gave what he hoped was a friendly mumble as she came in with some laundry.

"You intending to sleep through summer vacation?" she asked, regarding her son.

Calvin tried to open his eyes, and, when that failed, cleaned the sleep-dust off of them to allow himself to see. "Just give me five more millennia and I'll be up."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Betty Halgins regarded Calvin with some concern momentarily, then dismissed it. The boy had busted his ass for the whole semester to get the grades- let him sleep. He had earned it in every sense of the word.

Her thoughts shifted back to yesterday, the intrusion by the Rod and Whip agent who had, despite protests, attempted to whisk Calvin off to the boot camp, and failing that attempted to assault him.

She and her husband had discussed the issue at length later that night, agreeing to file charges against the agent at least- if not Rod and Whip itself. Discipline was what she signed him up for had he not followed through, not brutality.

Had Calvin made mistakes? Certainly!

Had he been a brat as a kid? Undoubtedly!

Did he need a strong incentive to learn how to make it in this world? Absolutely!

Would they still have sent him to Rod and Whip had he not the grades? No, but they'd find someplace!

But hadn't he proven he could change from a brat to a better person? No question about it.

And for the agent to say that trying AND doing your best to be better didn't matter, that he should still be punished despite meeting expectations… that made no sense.

She wondered if, in his dreams, Calvin dreamed in hatred of her and his father for signing him up for such a brutal program.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Fortunately, Calvin dreamt not dreams of telling off his parents or running away, but of soaring over a metropolis, wielding two katana made of solidified fire, fighting off ninja-robot-dragon-zombies with sword moves and bizarre metaphysical blasts of energy from his elbows.

"Calvinor," hissed one rotted draconic assailant. "How I have heard of you, the legendary "Tyrant Slaying Messiah of the Blazing Lotus"! You have had your day as the mightiest of warriors, but now the Clan of the Poisoned Steel-scaled dragon shall claim your head and fiery blades as our prize!"

Clad in red and black armor that was on fire for no reason (or, in this case, needed no reason to be aflame) Calvinor assumed a fighting stance, crimson trails of fire tracing the movements of his katana. "Sorrowfang… the infamous "Tiger-heart eating son of the demon king Homwurk". How am I not surprised you require an entourage of assassins to aid you in your futile endeavor to annoy me again? Have you not forgotten how it was I who bested Moemore the ogre with but a flick of the wrist when you set him upon me? What then gives you or your assassins reason to believe you stand more chance against me than a match-flame stands against the great tsunami, or the sapling before the iron axe?"

"Because this time, I have numbers! You may be able to see a hundred moves ahead by simply reading the breath of a man, you may be able to fight blinded and deafened with both arms bound and still win, but against multiple trained assassins not even you can stand forever!"

Calvinor shifted his foot ever so slightly, resting on a cloud as if it were solid stone. "So you and your clan have decided on mass suicide, then." He sneered, surveying the nine thousand and two ninja-robot-dragon-zombies who surrounded him in the air, forming a crude spherical barrier of bladed death between him and escape. "Fine then- come, and let your demise be a lesson to all- no injustice stands before Calvinor unscathed!"

The zombie dragon raised its left arm- a grenade launcher that shot hellfire bombs- to gesture at the crimson and jet clad samurai. "KILL HIM! RICHES AND PRESTIGE TO HE WHO MAKES HIM SCREAM THE LOUDEST!"

As the horde closed in on him, Calvinor sighed. Not out of concern for his life or limb, but because he did so hate to rain gore on the civilians. It was so impolite.

Outstretching his katana, Calvinor abruptly shifted his stance. "Forbidden death formula Delta- Liquid Sun Cyclone!" he scream, spinning round and around, his fiery blades slicing through the air…

CRASH.

Multiple queries raced through Calvinor's mind. Where did his katana go? Where'd the ninja-dragons head off to? And why, instead of soaring atop the clouds, was he face down in his bedroom carpet?

Peeling himself off the floor, he looked at the alarm clock on his dresser. 11 AM.

He stood, stretched, went over to his window and opened the blinds. Instantly the searing rays of the summer sun enveloped him. He would need to withdraw from the fiery embrace lest he bake eventually, but it felt good.

So this was what it meant to earn one's freedom.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

"_What is the worst enemy Rod and Whip has to face? Some may say it is the judges who come down hard on our kind when discovered, labeling them dangers to society and locking them away forever if not executing them outright. Others may say it is the parents who shield their children from our Holy and Perfect Judgment, yet others will say it is the admittedly terrifying idea that yes, even now, spies are amidst our ranks, reporting in secrecy to those who would strike us down."_

"_Yet none of these are our mortal foe. Judges can be bribed. Parents can be swayed. Spies can be slain. No, our deadliest foes, those who are anathema to us and our Holy and Perfect Judgment, are intelligent children."_

"_The craftier the child, the more they have at their disposal to evade us. Some may know methods of elusion via electronic tampering or engineering of facades. Others cower behind layer upon layer of laws, creating a literal barrier of red tape that at the best means more resources must be wasted on attempting to capture them for punishment, and at worst means attempting to capture them is suicidal and detrimental to the welfare of Rod and Whip."_

"_Some are so diabolical that, even once captured, they can feign a broken spirit and helplessness, waiting for the attention focused on them to slacken, waiting for a chink in the armor we bear to slip through and escape. One such child had placed paperclips into a self-inflicted injury so that when ignored but for a second she could pick the lock and escape. Fortunately, the girl in question was caught and executed, but the lesson stands- never assume our prisoners are helpless."_

"_On the same topic, all door locks are now being upgraded to electronic. Metal detection sweeps are also now mandatory for all incoming prisoners, and any prisoners deemed to have abnormally high IQs are to have their arms and hands broken on a regular basis. Of course, taskmasters are not required to lessen said prisoner's workloads to account for this …"_

-Rod and Whip Memo regarding a recent escape attempt.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Somewhere else, another youth struggled desperately for his freedom.

There were some minor differences between this boy and Calvin- one being that this youth wholly embraced education as a place to prove intellectual superiority, having been blessed with what some might say was a mind balanced on the thin line that separated genius from madness.

Here, his grades were not the issue- being a longtime honor roll overachiever, he was not in danger of failing any time soon. Nor was his behavior in school up for judgment.

Rather, however, his parents were concerned that he wasn't getting enough time with other kids his age, and so the idea of sending him to a summer boot camp- 'Camp Grindstone'- to build relationships and character- was put forth.

The youth in question, Jason Fox, thirteen and a half years old, had his own opinions on the idea, but they involved the use of many, many expletives and he felt somewhat indebted to his parents to the point cursing them out was not an option, and so he made an abridged statement.

"No. Way."

Andy Fox, his mother, did not hear the rejection as she looked over the brochure. His father, Roger, however, did, and sighed.

"Are you sure? Because military stuff aside, this place sounds great."

"Clever ruses." Countered Jason, adjusting his pair of glasses. "Plenty of jargon drenched in sugar-coating to lure parents into sending their kids to a death camp. This isn't a stricter Camp Bohrmore, it's a Gitmo for young adults."

This did get Andy's attention, and she set the brochure down. "I hardly think a regimen of discipline and exercise in addition to fun activities qualifies as a "Gitmo", Jason."

Jason snatched up the brochure. "Look at this and analyze what they're _really_ saying. 'Daily exercise regimen and carefully constructed meals' translates into "We will run your kid ragged and feed them slop that has no nutritional value and tastes as if predigested." 'Professional staff skilled with dealing with teens from all backgrounds' means "We have people who were fired from being Drill Sergeants for excessive force who only know chokeholds as their means of communication." And don't tell me the stuff like "High security campgrounds" and the fact they mention 'rigorous discipline'… five… seven… thirteen times through here doesn't set off at least a few alarm bells."

Andy sighed . "Look, maybe it will take a few days to get used to, but it will be a lot of fun, and…"

"Mom, this isn't a summer camp, it's a prison for kids who break into cars and plot Columbines! Kids like me have DIED in these things!"

Finally this seemed to put at least a momentary stop to the flow of praise for the camp.

"This isn't like the camp I went to a few years back- it's one of those military camps for kids who really messed up- and this is the kind that DOESN'T work. There's no focus on rehabilitation or correction- it's just kicking kids around until they comply to avoid getting hurt."

His father and mother gave him a sort of incredulous look, concerned for their child's welfare but wary of a bluff.

"Don't believe me? Get on the net. Look up 'Grindstone Incident'. That place has had several lawsuits against it for assault and battery with a deadly weapon and endangering of a minor. One kid couldn't run the laps she was told to, so the counselors chucked rocks at her to make her move fasters. You get three guesses as to how **that** brilliant idea worked out."

Roger blinked. "…she died?"

Jason shook his head. "Fortunately, no. But it was close. "

"Didn't her parents sue?"

"That's the creepy part. They did file a lawsuit, but none of them showed up for court. No one has seen them since."

"Didn't they investigate-"

"Yes, but since everyone who worked at the Grindstone camp was present and accounted for during the span of it all, they weren't charged. Eventually they filed for dismissal on the grounds the girl was faking it, her ploy went wrong, and she and her family went underground to avoid embarrassment. Full of holes, but without any witnesses…"

Roger stood up. "You'll forgive me if this sounds a little bit suspicious…"

Jason shrugged. "Like I said, look it up if you don't believe me. And if nothing else, if you're so concerned about my physical wellness, why not just sign me up for karate?"

"Because last time you took an interest in the martial arts it cost us all the wood we were using to make the Trellis." Andy deadpanned. "But nevertheless…"

Roger headed over to the family computer. "I'll look it up in the meantime."

Inwardly, Jason let out a sigh of relief. The seeds of doubt planted, combined with the fact that for once he was being completely honest, would work things in his favor.

A genuine fear had gripped him when the camp idea was put forward, for such camps were the stuff of dark rumors among teens and adolescents- get shipped off and come back beaten, raped, maimed… or dead.

A expletive from his father. He'd found the links Jason had hoped he would. Words of outrage and disbelief. Jason allowed himself a smile.

_Mission Accomplished._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

"_We expect professionalism and zeal from our agents in all endeavors, capture or not, but it must be admitted that sometimes, through no fault of the agent, a snag occurs. The parents back our and are adamant about not sending their child with us. Legal issues arise. In some cases a trip to one of our facilities is used as a threat to shape up, and the child performs to the parent's standard."_

"_In such cases it is important not to force the capture- doing so can be disastrous for both the agent and Rod and Whip. Rather, subtlety and deception are the tools to be sued in place of brute force and blunt coercion."_

"_Appealing to the 'big man' mentality and an authoritarian mindset can often reverse an unfavorable decision, particularly with certain fathers. Promises of weeding out any and all traces of rebellion can also work with parents who have had children who have "shaped up" after a long period of disobedience and/or mischief. In the event of male targets, promises to "make a man out of him" can be incredibly effective."_

"_In an event that none of the above works, there is one final last ditch effort- the oft-mentioned "Paid trial" in which an agent offers money to parents in exchange for a month of their child at camp for "research on techniques to focus the mind, strengthen the body, and discipline the spirit". The sums offered are typically $3,000-$4,000, and in some cases where all else has failed can turn the tide for the better."_

"_Agents need not be concerned about Rod and Whip running dry- we have resources dedicated to ensuring any funds expended in this way are reclaimed with interest…"_

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Some people had talent to get them by.

Some were blessed with charisma to allow them to influence others. Others had minds capable of unraveling mysteries in mere seconds. Some were athletic. Some were sneaky. Some were simply so likable they got what they wanted. Others had friends in high places.

All Curtis Wilkins felt he had was hard work.

Life for him was an eternal uphill struggle, it seemed. After the inauguration incident he'd tried to redeem himself in his parent's eyes for God only knows how long, yet they always seemed to find new flaws to pick at. Music choice. Grades- when he passed everything, they wanted B's or better. When he achieved that, they wanted honor roll. When he did that, they wanted all As. And when that incredible feat was accomplished they badgered him over a 91 for over an hour about doing things half-assed.

When he had managed all high A's, they wanted him to work more around the house. When he did that, they wanted him to get a job. And now, even with his grades and cleaned house and a job that combined sapped him of all energy, still his parents ground down on him with what seemed ever increasing harshness. No longer was his birthday celebrated. No longer did he get gifts at Christmas. And when family came over he was locked in his room on the premise he had been 'in trouble at school'. Mistakes were worth badgering and belting. In short, there was no longer any pretense on being on his side at all from his family.

And yet, that brat could bring home an 80 art project and be taken out for dinner while Curtis cleaned the bathroom.

At age 11, Curtis had wondered if his parents favored his brother Barry over him. At age 13, he wondered if his brother Barry could ever get in trouble again without the majority of the blame falling on Curtis' head. Now, at age 16, Curtis knew as surely as the sun was hot and his dinner would be cold, Barry had been the favorite even before that damned trip to see Obama inaugurated.

He had finished sweeping the barbershop floor when Gunther cleared his throat. "Quittin' time, Carlos. Good work today."

Curtis didn't bother to correct him anymore. He was a decent boss who paid decent wages, and he didn't tear into every flaw and insecurity every five minutes.

"They still giving you flak over that incident?" Gunther asked.

"Is water still wet?" Curtis replied, replacing the broom back in its place and clocking out.

"God's sakes, man… it's been five freaking years-"

"They say it's just yesterday to them."

Curtis turned, and saw Gunther give him… a look. Sad, pitying, grim faced yet eyes conveying a message of 'this isn't right'.

God, he HATED THAT LOOK.

"But hey…" Curtis said, turning to not meet the gaze, "two more years and they can have Mr. Wonderful Perfect sunshine-pissing miracle-shitting Barry to themselves and I'll be outta their lives for good."

Gunther started to say something, paused, withdrew. Past debates over whether or not there was still compassion in Curtis' parents for him had ended badly in the past and he didn't want to start the summer off on that train of thought. Finally, he reached a safe topic. "Where are you going to go after graduation?"

Shrugging as if the decision was of no consequence, Curtis started out the door.

"Somewhere else."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

The walk home was uneventful. Boring. Thankfully cooler now that it was the evening, but there was nothing to pass the monotony of his march home.

No longer did he even have looking out for Derrick and Onion to stave off the ennui. One shakedown after Curtis had just received a vicious slapping and dressing down from his father for yet another false accusation from Barry had ended the string of extortion.

After being thrown to the ground once and seeing Derrick pull a knife, Curtis had grabbed a nearby loose bit of brick and used it to beat Derrick and Onion to bloody pulps, smashing teeth and noses and likely fracturing a few ribs. To this day they still walked funny, and ran whenever they saw Curtis coming.

The sensation he had received after the encounter, the feeling of having come close to beating two lifetime enemies to death with only a bit of building material left Curtis with something resembling joy that he did not wholly accept as wholesome.

But neither did he wholly reject it.

And so his family criticized him about the odd souvenir of broken brick, never grasping its significance.

He broke out of his thoughts to realize he was home.

For perhaps a minute and a half he wondered if he had to go in, if maybe just once he could use some of the money he saved to rent a hotel room and spend the night there… anything to get away from the double standard for a few hours. It was his summer vacation after all…

Yet, the reasonable part of his mind reminded him he needed that money if he was going to move out and go somewhere else, and that the luxury of escape was not his.

Not tonight.

Not this year.

His hand moved to his pocket to retrieve a key, which even now felt like it had the weight of a small mountain of lead to it. He walked like a prisoner condemned to the door, unlocked it, opened it.

And he began to scream, at the top of his lungs, "YES, I am home late, because we had customers who can't understand what a 'closed' sign means and I had to help clean up, it's summer, I worked my ass off all year to earn all As, so if you want to give me shit about something, SAVE IT FOR FUCKING TOMMORROW, because right now I am fresh out of damns to give about your never-ending whining!"

But seeing as how the tirade was screamed only in his mind and not spoken aloud, the shock and awe of his outburst of rage had none of the effect he'd hoped it would.

He wondered how quickly he could take a shower and go to bed. Maybe they wouldn't hear him and he could go to sleep without a round of berating… he wasn't all that hungry-

"Curtis." His father spoke from a hallway.

Damn it. Spotted.

"Come into the kitchen. We… we need to talk."

"_You want to talk? Okay, let's talk about belts. They're for wearing around your waist, NOT for beating up your kid because he flushed your cigs because he was afraid you would die! Don't wanna talk about belts? Okay, then how about family support? You know, this may be news to you, but when a guy busts his ass to meet people's wants and they keep ragging on him for a mistake he made FIVE FUCKING YEARS AGO it wears a man down! Oh, don't wanna talk about that either, huh? Well then, FUCK YOU, I have nothing to say to you. Go talk to Mom about how horrible I am and how wonderful Barry is if it makes you feel better, because I couldn't care less right now!"_

Again the tirade raged only in his mind and Curtis followed his father in silence.

His mother was also at the table. He was moderately relieved to see Barry was not in attendance.

He sat, as did his father. He glanced at his watch. Had it been a whole minute?

His mother spoke first. "…ever since the incident, we know we've been…"

There was a pause.

"_The word you're looking for is assholes. Or tyrants. Hey, even bitchy would work well here."_

"…hard on you."

"_Annnnnnd the understatement of the year award goes to Diane Wilkins!"_

"What you did was wrong," "_and here I thought you were just both cranky" _"but it didn't warrant us being angry and berating for this long."

Was this an apology? He glanced at his watch. Two minutes.

His father spoke. "…you tried your damndest to redeem yourself,"

"_You mean, did my damndest."_

"and we just… we… we just wanted to keep being angry with you. It was easier that way- one good kid and one bad kid."

"_God forbid parenting involve any decision making."_

His father hung his head. "I tried to give myself an excuse for the beltings. I couldn't. All it ever accomplished was hurting you and making you angry."

"_It took you five friggin' years to figure this out?"_

"…and… you still kept trying. You made all As. You got a job. You did more than your fair share of housework, even when we spent days at a time not talking to you. I know praising Barry over everything and ignoring all the stuff you did couldn't have helped your morale any."

"It didn't." Curtis spoke finally, with great effort holding back the deluge of acid that threatened to burst forth.

"For five years, I came home, and it was like the first hour after the incident every minute of every day."

"_You pieces of shit, you give me five years of hell and you expect one little chat to make everything all better?"_

"Do you have any idea how much it hurts?" Curtis choked, biting his tongue so as not to cry. "To come home and hear, instead of "I love you", stuff like "What'd you do now?", "You shithead", "Try not to screw up today"? Do you have ANY idea how many times I'd lay awake crying on the sofa, because if I woke Barry up he'd whine and you'd get angry and I COULDN'T EVEN SLEEP IN MY OWN BED, and I'm thinking that all I have to do is jump on the roof or down some pills, and I never have to deal with this again?"

"_You are nothing more than child abusers. Anyone else would have called the cops on you a long time ago. I'm not sure why I didn't."_

His father opened his mouth to speak. Curtis, however, was not done- something ugly now snapped inside him, raged, roared in all its unchained fury, and the outrage that he felt for all these years poured forth. The barrier that separated his thoughts from his speech snapped with all the terrible rumblings of, perhaps, a volcano, no longer capable of containing the destructive forces within, exploding in a cloud of fiery rage.

"**DO YOU REMEMBER SLAPPING ME FOR MISSING A SPOT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR, DAD?!"** he screamed, causing his parents to jerk upright at the sudden outburst. **"DID THAT MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE A BIG MAN, BEATING UP YOUR KID WITH YOUR HAND AND YOUR BELT?!"**

"Curtis, please, calm d-"

"**NO, I WILL **_**NOT FUCKING CALM DOWN!**_**"** something very much like a soul wrongfully imprisoned in hell raged in Curtis, years of indignation and fury no longer checked now formed a howling maelstrom of rage that had wrested free of its owner's control. "All the curses, all the sighing, all the badmouthing, all the slaps, all the demands, all the anger… we didn't even celebrate my birthday." Tears poured down his face, contorted in rage. "Do you know…" he spoke low, straining each word as if it cost him a year of his lifespan, "Do you know what that says to a kid?"

If either Greg or Diane had a reply to this, it never had a chance to be spoken.

"**IT MEANS, "WE REGRET YOU WERE EVER BORN!" HOW WOULD YOU LIKE FOR YOUR MOM AND DAD TO TELL YOU "YOU'RE A MISTAKE AND I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN", HUH?! 'CUZ THAT'S WHAT THAT SAID TO ME! AND YEAH, I MESSED UP AND I CRIED AND I APOLOGIZED AND I REPENTED AND I TRIED FOR **_**FIVE-FUCKING- YEARS-**_**"**and here he punctuated by bashing his clenched fists on the table with each word,** "TO MAKE IT RIGHT, BUT YOU COULDN'T BE BOTHERED TO SHOW ME YOU STILL LOVED ME!"**

He stopped, unable to give more words to his anger, save for maybe expletives, and in the absence of his rage or his parent's voices there was a harsh, grating silence broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Curtis forced a smile, the tears mercifully slowing, but in place of a proper expression of mirth he only managed a sort of smile-shaped wound on his face that showed nothing, but, perhaps, teeth and a rage that could not yet take life- what had been displayed here was but a fragment of the resentment.

"But hey-" and his voice was calm, disturbingly serene, as if they were perhaps discussing something as trivial as the weather, "just two more years, and I'm gone for good. Then you can have perfect person Barry to yourself and never worry about me again. You'll need to find someone to do the housework, of course, but I'm sure you'll manage."

Finally, Diane found the power to speak. "But honey, where will you go?"

Curtis laughed, a short, clipped bark that struck the walls like a fist and rattled bone and soul alike. He shrugged, still wearing that not-really-a-smile façade. "Who cares? Not me. Definitely not you or dad, especially not Barry… all I know right now is 'somewhere else'."

His mother reached out to touch his hand, still clenched into a fist, "Honey, we know this is hard, and that you're still angry about what's happened, but we need to talk and work this out-"

The façade of a smile dissolved as Curtis jerked his hand back as if burned. "You think one night of apologizing is going to make up for five years of not being welcome at the dinner table? Five years of glaring at me every time I enter the room? It won't." He got up and headed upstairs. He still wanted a shower…

"Honey, please!" he could hear the sobs in his mother's voice. "Could we just talk?!"

Curtis didn't break stride. "You've both said enough for a lifetime, mom. "Shithead. Irresponsible. Dumbass. Idiot. Slacker." I don't think there's anything left to be said."

He closed the door and turned the bathroom fan on to drown out the sobbing from downstairs as be prepared to bathe.

They had considered his tears an irritation in years past.

Now he repaid in turn.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

The speaker for Rod and Whip's meetings was a bald man in his 40's, powerfully built, dressed in military fatigues. To his subordinates, he was simply "Sir Father".

He held up a thumbtack- flat head, sharp point, nothing intricate. "If someone told you the new dress code included jamming one of these into each foot and both eyes, you'd think they were crazy."

"'But come on', they may say, 'It's just one little thumbtack! It's not too bad!'" he paused to let the words sink in.

"If we allow dissent- _especially from outsider children-_ to linger unchallenged, it is just like maiming ourselves with this!" he thrust the thumbtack out so his subordinates could see it.

"Oh sure, it's not going to kill you. But it slows you down- hampers you, distracts you and leaves you more vulnerable. You're trying to go about your business and all you can think about it the _metal needle in your eye._ There is a reason we use pain- it's effective at getting and keeping attention."

"And keep in mind, we're just talking about one thumbtack. What if this said idiot asked you to jab yourself full of over eight thousand? You'd call him a fucking idiot to his face, and you'd be right! But that's our situation, soldiers-" and here he flipped on a projector screen. "-as of right now there are some 8,234 and change _shit-for-brains _hippies talking trash about us and our programs. And every time they insult Rod and Whip, they insult _you._"

Cries of outrage quickly stifled. Father suppressed a smile. The berserker zeal he was hoping to instill was taking root.

"Some of these shits are kids, like this Calvin punk you've heard about- Make no mistake, the agent responsible for that screw-up just got put on the corpse burning crew- but others are adult sympathizers from all walks of life- educators. Psychiatrists. Police and Military, yes, you heard me right, _the very people who are supposed to keep order are preventing us from enforcing it._ There's even boot camp directors who are calling us "dangerous perversions of a tool meant to correct troubled youth"."

"I want you to look around you, right now." Instantly and obediently heads swiveled, confused. "These people and those still on duty in our other bases are your only allies in this war against the youth of today and their corrupting influence. Everyone else is potential enemy until they join us."

"These naysayers, however, are our open enemies. In a war, someone shoots at you first, you shoot back. They're firing salvo after salvo on us. Right now, their ammunition is just a post here or there. But some of us know all too well the danger of letting criticism of any degree go unchallenged."

He looked, briefly, at Gathwells with what passed for sympathy for a man of his kind- a rotund woman, curled red hair missing in clumps where it had been forcibly torn out, face scarred and dented and marred from what many could only assume was a beating she was not meant to survive, yet did.

"It is not lightly that I say what I will say now, because for years now I have preached to stay your hands from outright action until the time is right. I have taught you to draw in your targets rather than go out and seek them actively, for the good of Rod and Whip, and for the good of the future we will bring."

He let the silence spiral uncomfortably for several seconds.

"But our hands have been forced. We must deal with this now, and no longer do we have the luxury of complete subtlety."

Sir Father sighed, and then straightened himself, the action of a man about to make a desperate move.

"You will be dispatched to deal with these naysayers. Kill the adults. Capture the children, they will serve as examples first. As for Calvin Halgins… loathe as I am to order special treatment, his witnessing of an agent's failure, his parents' impending lawsuit, and his evasion of being sent to one of our correctional facilities warrants he be made a strong example of. Mark my words- I am not ordering leniency. He will suffer like none have suffered before. Any questions?"

Mary cautiously raised her hand. "…and if the adult targets have children of their own present?"

Sir Father suppressed a smile at the eager look, however deformed it was. "…if their progeny are unfortunate enough to be in reach during your hunt, then, well… the sins of the father and mother do pass unto the son and daughter…"

A palpable unholy glee filled the room as the implications of this subtle approval sank in.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Calvin was getting ready to go out with his family to eat in celebration for his good grades, when he heard Hobbes growl and stir from his rest. Fearing a pounce, he spun-

But Hobbes was not growling at him… rather, he looked about frantically, teeth bared, eyes wild.

"…Hobbes?" Calvin spoke cautiously. "Buddy, something wrong?"

Hobbes sniffed the air, looked about him, confused. "…thought I felt something. Nauseating."

Calvin was distracted by his mother calling.

"Be careful." Hobbes warned, muscles untensing ever so slowly. "I think something rotten just woke up."

Calvin nodded. "Right." And with that he headed down, outside to the car-

-and stopped as soon as he set foot outside. There was something wrong with the air, a pollution not generated by smog or cars or anything mechanical… it was colder, too, as if all at once the very heat and energy had dispersed… or fled.

He ignored it, got in, buckled up.

Numbers of reasons came to mind. Cold front. Nerves from the school year catching up with him. Delayed reaction from what happened only yesterday with the idiot in the fatigues. Illness.

But none of these satisfied him, and so, to and from the restaurant, Calvin kept a wary eye out for more psychotics in fatigues.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

Roger Fox's hand slapped the alarm clock to make it stop ringing so he could sleep in.

Twice. Three times. On the fourth he realized it was not the clock at all but the phone.

He glanced at the clock- 3:14 AM. Fearing the worst- a dying relative, Peter being in an accident after going for a midnight run, he fumbled for the phone…

"Hullo?" he asked in a voice he hoped wasn't too slurred.

"Mr. Fox?" A voice, pleasant, energetic, female replied. Disarming yet disturbing. Who the hell was happy to be making calls at 3 in the morning?

"Speaking." He sat up. "Who's this?" He was not feeling overly civil.

"I'm calling on behalf on Camp Grindstone- recently you expressed interest in applying your son for a summer at our facilities, but we haven't heard back from you, so-"

"We decided not to." Roger said, patience strained. Being woken up at this hour for what amounted to telemarketing was grating on his nerves.

"But sir, by depriving your son of our rigorous discipline and exercise regimen, you're leaving him woefully ill-prepa-"

"No."

"Sir-"

"NO."

"So when can we come pick up your child for camp then?" she asked sweetly.

"I said no. Are you-"

"We recommend a night-time retrieval." She pursued. "It delivers a little bit of shock and catches them by surprise, and helps set the tone of who is in charge, and-"

"Listen, you sick little bimbo," Roger snarled, patience worn thin and paternal guardian instincts kicking in, "I read about you and your sick little Gitmo camp. He's not getting anywhere near it. Come near my house or my kids and so help me God, I will sue you and whatever pedophile pals you dug up to help you. Goodbye."

Roger hung up. The phone rang again, and this time, he simply yanked the cord out of the wall.

Then the full implications of what was said hit him, several minutes later- the sick freaks _knew where he lived._

Jumping out of bed, Roger replugged the phone in, and immediately it rang, Had the same people been calling all this time? He answered, daring to say nothing.

"Hello, Mr. Fox?" A different voice. Pleasant, male. "I understand you heard some disquieting rumors about Camp Grindstone, and we were wondering what would be a good time to come over and-"

He hung up, and dialed the police. He could deal with whatever irritation the authorities would have for him bothering them at this hour. He ignored the persisting beeps that indicated another call was trying to go through.

He didn't know exactly how many children these sort of camps had maimed or killed.

But he did know no child of his would join their ranks.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….......

The sports bar was a haven to those weary of the weight of the world outside. Cold beer, hot meals, attractive female waitstaff, and sports blaring on multiple TVs. Appropriately named "The Antidote", it was a cure, however momentary, for the pains afflicting those whom the daily grind had ground down too much.

It was here Greg Wilkins discussed his problem with someone who proclaimed to have experience with such matters.

"…ever since that one mistake we've been hard as hell on him." He said, shakily lowering his beer glass. "I know before we were hard on him and soft on Barry, but after this… after that he couldn't do any right by us- we wouldn't let him. We tried apologizing last night and now he's just angrier and won't even talk to us."

The man, clad in Italian suit, Blonde hair neatly combed, listened intently.

"What'd, you whack 'im across the head when he screwed up afterwards? Maybe for something minor?" Greg just looked into his beer glass. "Listen, from what I understand, that kid got off way too easy. Endangering your one **good** kid? I know plenty of fathers who found a good solution- juvenile hall."

Greg looked up. "…My good kid?"

The man shrugged. "I hate to break it to you, but comparing Barry and Curtis, well, it's not hard to see who the villain of this story is. Curtis is _playing_ you, Mr. Wilkins. He knows that if he does a few good things and keeps doing them even when you are **rightfully** still angry, he can guilt trip you into apologizing and trying to make amends… when you've done nothing wrong in the first place. It's psychological warfare, pure and simple, and it's the first of many steps towards a future where he's using this as leverage for everything- money. A hideout from the cops. Getting you to lie to authorities on his behalf. He's what's called 'parasitic progeny', and unless you nip this in the bud and show him who's boss, show him he is wrong when **you** say he's wrong, and right when and only if **you** say he is."

Greg took all this in. Was that what his eldest son had become? A con artist, setting up all of this to create a constant stream of undeserved support? Was he chuckling even now, looking up expensive merchandise that he wanted as peace offerings?

As if aware of the torrent of "He would nevers" that were forthcoming in Greg's mind, the blonde spoke. "I know you never expect an enemy to develop in your own home. No parent does, because when you grew up **you** obeyed, **you** bent over when you were told to bend over, you said 'sir' and 'ma'am', and you did not throw a temper tantrum when your carelessness got you punished. But that was a generation of respect, Mr. Wilkins. This generation… well…" the blonde smiled sadly. "Let us simply state that I am no longer of the desire to live forever. Not with the children of the day growing up into walking entitlement complexes."

"But I digress. Yes, Curtis has put on a good show- an excellent façade of what appears to be genuine redemption to get back into good graces so his hostile behavior would go ignored for a little longer. When you didn't fall for it at first, he fell back on Plan B, which is to play the low-blow crybaby game of 'you don't love me anymore'. It's dirty fighting, plan and simple- genius in its own sinister way, but that doesn't change the fact he is undermining you and your wife's authority to try and get his way."

Greg's mind raced. _Did_ Curtis have the capacity to do this? He did make all high A's when pressed- was he simply slacking off, trying to freeload, only to call on sinister reserves of cunning when the situation warranted it?

And this question brought up even more damning queries- he hadn't looked closely at those grade's Curtis had earned, dismissing them in his anger. How genuine were those A's?

Finding the courage to speak, he raised a painful query. "…how difficult would it be to make sure it _looked _like someone was getting all A's?"

The blonde sighed. "…do you really want the answer to that question? Because with all due respect, you do **not** look like you need another punch to the gut."

Greg downed the rest of his beer. "Forewarned is forearmed." He said grimly.

The dark look on the man's face did not speak of a pleasant reply. "If what I heard is correct, you never paid much attention to his grades during this period, right? If that's the case- which I'd bet good money he was counting on- he could have done ANY number of things."

"Such as?"

The blonde groaned. "Where to begin, man? There are sites run by slackers that have papers on every subject ready for download- change a few verbs, add your own personal touch, and BAM. Some sites even have editors where you can print fake report cards tailor made to match the same kind your school uses. If he was REALLY serious, he may have learned to hack the school's system- or got someone to do it for him. A few quick keystrokes and the school truant suddenly has the highest GPA of the whole school. Some get caught when teachers sense something's up, but the majority slip through unseen, and that's just OUTSIDE the classroom. Inside, there's all manner of schemes. Drawing pity from the teachers- did any of your physical punishments leave a bruise or draw blood? Then that's material he can use to tilt the odds in his favor. Do-overs on missed assignments, make-ups of make-ups, on and on. Even when sympathy fails, he's still got an arsenal. Stealing answers, writing answers on the inside of a sleeve or hat…"

Fury flared in Greg's heart at the idea of Curtis using the cap he gave him as a tool to cheat his way up.

"…conspiring with other students, or, in worse cases, threatening them to get answers. And the teachers… well, some try to weed out the cheaters. But it's like trying to hold back a flood with a leaky bucket. Eventually they become so worn out that they just cease to give a damn, and that's what leaves us with our problem today- a nation full of young cheaters, liars, thieves, and thugs, all waiting for the right moments to up the ante."

The blonde mercifully paused, and Greg reeled. Had Curtis, all this time, known exactly what to do in each scenario? Was he raising a son, still- or a conman in training?

"He may still be salvageable. Maybe not. I'm not going to lie to you here; some really horrible people were born to really good parents. Right now, he's conning you out of your dignity and authority. Next, your money. Next, your home. How long until you have nothing left to offer him, and he takes your life, then pleas when caught that your punishments, your attempts to break the evil inside him were what made him bad?"

Greg started. Could Curtis go that far? Could he, like some horrible parasite, drain him and Diane dry and discard the husks when depleted?

"If not for his sake, then for Barry's." the blonde spoke again. "If he gets rid of you, Barry will have no one to turn to but his corrupt big brother. And let me assure you, from what I have seen in my line of work, that sort of relationship- the good little kid seeking mentorship from a bad big brother- always ends in tears. Every time."

Already his eldest son had carelessly more or less abandoned Barry to the harsh night-time streets, Greg realized. Curtis could not care less for his own flesh and blood- he was truly capable of murder in his current state, and if he and Diane were gone, how long until Curtis tired of Barry's limited uses as a go-fer and lookout, and simply got rid of him?

All this time he'd had an enemy assembling an arsenal under his nose. What had started Curtis' progress as the family nemesis? One too many punishments with a belt or hand? Favoritism? Was it like the blonde said, and Curtis was a soul gone rotten from day one?

Despair washed over him. To give up on Curtis and have him arrested for incorrigibility or to simply exile him from the house would mean, to him, admitting defeat. Letting Curtis go unpunished for his plotting would mean that he'd be condemning his own wife and youngest child to a slow death. Did any fragment of good remain in Curtis?

"…what do I do?" he asked, pleadingly. "I'm living on a tight budget. I can't afford to send him someplace like the camp you mentioned to get straightened up…"

"I understand entirely." The man said. "What if we paid you?"

Greg looked up. He could not have heard correctly. "…Pardon?"

"…my company, Rod and Whip, is testing a new method to, quite literally, make a person 'forget' how to be evil. The mind is, essentially, a big fleshy computer- it may simply be that all that Curtis requires is a reformat. Regretfully, however, few are willing to take the risks with their child, and so… well, I'll be frank. Right now we need a test subject."

Greg closed his eyes, resting his hand on his chin. "…what are the odds it will work?"

"In brutal honesty, 70-80%. If we can make the prior moments before his 'reboot' traumatic and painful emotionally, it would help boost the success chance, and make him less likely to revert- it's easier to make someone forget what they want to forget, but… it would involve creating the worst day in Curtis' life."

Creating the worst day in his son's life. Part of his screamed he had hurt Curtis far more than enough already and now he was punishing for the sake of punishing. Another part spoke of the dark scenario described to him- better safe than sorry.

"How much?" he heard himself ask.

"$3,000 sound fair? You and your family can go on a vacation, relax, and come back to a better kid."

Greg sat in silence for almost a whole minute.

"I hope he'll forgive me for this, someday." He said finally.

The blonde smiled. "Sir, why would he need to forgive you? He won't even remember anything, and even if he did, you're the parent here, not the other way around! It's time to show Mr. High-and-mighty who wears the pants in this family, so to speak."

Greg nodded. "Deal. What do we need to do, Mr.-" He paused. "I didn't catch your name?"

The blonde smiled as he sipped his beer. "Harry will do. Just Harry."


	3. Devils in Angel Masks

Chapter 3: Devils in Angel Masks

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Some people put on a good show for those outside their circle. Acts of charity. Politeness. Exuding a sincere aura of goodwill and wanting to do good for others out of little more than a sense of altruism.

For some, the act is genuine, a true indication of the good soul that resides within. For others, it is a façade, used to hide things ranging from mildly asinine to outrages the likes of which spur mobs into frenzied rages.

And, regrettably, some masks are intricate and well-played that no one notices the deception until the damage has been done.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"_One of the most powerful techniques an agent of Rod and Whip can use is that of turning the parents against the child. This not only gives the agent more trust with the parents, but also damages the psyche of the target child and softens them up for further psychological punishment."_

"_Methods used to achieve this vary from outright accusations to playing off of simple paranoia. While the agent should try to sway them into an offensive mindset via hopes of rehabilitation or correction at first, the eventual goal is to get a parent to punish for the sake of punishing…"_

-Rod and Whip Manual, "On First Contacts with target families"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Researching. During summer. Surely somewhere, someplace, there was a council of adolescents his age that would lynch him for such an outrageous act.

But Calvin needed answers regarding the crazed drill sergeant who had burst into the principal's office, tried to detain him by forced, attempted to break his face, and had a small arsenal on his person.

Why the hell had they sent someone with such weapons to get him? He hadn't done anything _that_ bad, and a jury had agreed the noodle incident was not an intentional act of terrorism. Had the agent acted on his own, simply being psychotic? He seemed too confident to simply be acting on impulse.

Message boards concerning such incidents were few, and a disquieting feature on many of them, he'd found, was that many posters claimed to be from other sites dedicated to victims of such camps that had been shut down without notice, with no reply from the site owners. Paranoid ramblings of assassinations and kidnappings invariably followed. There was hearsay related to certain members hearing of incidents of outright assault- horror stories of men coming in black vans to take away children signed up for such camps and their victims never returning home were commonplace.

Perhaps most disturbing site of all was one dedicated to victims of a 'Camp Grindstone', a summer camp supposedly geared towards physical fitness and military discipline. The information link "Causes of death and injury" was alarming enough- clicking on it brought a wave of disbelief as a long page chock full of horrific demises such as "head immersed in deep fryer" and "stoning" loaded.

Calvin blinked for a few seconds. Surely there was an exaggeration here, as often was the case on the internet.

Adults didn't do this sort of thing. Not unless they went crazy.

But what if, the thought struck him, what if a group of crazies focused around an ultracrazy, like those cults he'd read about?

At one time, this was the stuff of bad first grade books and nightmares, a group of adults devoted to making life for children miserable. He'd all but dismissed that sort of thought, accepting that, although often misguided and not sympathetic to emotions of children, most adults didn't harbor outright hatred for today's youth, at least, not so much to set up a series of age-based Guantanomos.

The internet was full of hoaxes. Chock full.

These websites could all just be someone's very sick idea of a prank.

That still didn't explain the man's psychotic, confident behavior.

One thing he'd come to accept of his elders was that they were less likely to take stupid risks- that meant the man who attempted to detain him had likely gone through this sort of procedure before and succeeded, which is why he became alarmed when things didn't go as he had apparently planned. Either the man was functionally psychotic, or he had been trained by something much greater than a self-generated zeal. The weapons they had found on him during the incident supported the idea- some sort of organization equipped him for this task.

Scrolling over the website menu, Calvin looked for contacts- and cursed under his breath as he read a disclaimer quoting – 'to protect the identities of victims, their families, and those who speak out against this injustice, we cannot disclose names, emails, addresses, etc.'

It made sense.

It also made verification harder.

He looked briefly outside through his window. It was a beautiful day, and he could use the exercise… but there was work to be done.

And there was more at stake than a few months of freedom.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"_An agent, no matter his or her zeal for the principles of perpetual punishment, must remember that not all potential targets can be turned in for reasons of grades, rebellion, or criminal activity."_

"_Use your full arsenal- look for parents seeking summer camps for purposes of entertainment, physical fitness, religious experience. Do not be afraid to lie about your beliefs- remember, you serve a greater good than any temporary moral standard of honesty, and to that end, sacrifices- material and mental- must be made. The parents may be enraged, at first, when our true nature is revealed, but when they no longer suffer the ravages of their inherently disobedient and anarchic children, they will love us."_

-Rod and Whip Manual, "On dealing with 'innocent targets'"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Faith had trouble remembering what happy was.

Was happy when you weren't getting punished? Was it when the punishment stopped for a little while? Or was it something more, something intangible?

She kept making sandwiches. Her father, a pastor, was holding a party. No time for her to do homework. Or rest. Going out by herself was out of the question. All her dwindling resources had to be devoted to aiding her father, a respected member of the Christian community.

She couldn't even join the party- God forbid they see her black eye and bruised arms from where her father 'disciplined' her. That would raise suspicion as to her father's worth as a spiritual leader. He still needed to concoct a story ( a parable, he called them) that would blame her for her injuries and teach a lesson in unquestioned obedience to the youth of the church.

Humiliating her by lying about faults and wrongs undone, her father had said (in between the incidents where he was pummeling her), was a necessity God had permitted to allow him to preach to the youth. Her shaming and pain on earth would be rewarded in heaven as long as she was obedient.

But not getting her homework done was disobedience, which he preached damned a teen to hell, the blood sacrifice of Jesus regardless. And she couldn't do her homework if she was here, in the kitchen, doing all the work- making sandwiches, refilling punch, making cookies- and leaving here was disobedience.

Her most recent injuries were a result of asking her father about the paradox. He had taken belt and fist to her, battering her in a fury while preaching about blasphemy, until he too, had realized the paradox.

In what passed for apology from him he said that if she did everything right, she could have two hours to work on homework. She was grateful he could not hear her mental retort to that boon- _Whoop-de-__**fucking-**__do._

"Sweetie?" her mother's voice. She kept making sandwiches. She didn't bother to turn. If her mother couldn't be bothered to interject one word of reason, some plea for mercy on her behalf during 'disciplinary sessions' she sure as hell wouldn't acknowledge her.

An awkward silence followed, broken only by chopping of meat and veggies.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that he appreciates you doing this as unto the lord, despite everything-"

"He doesn't." she spoke finally, using a matter-of-factly tone. Tone was everything. If she was out of breath it was interpreted as exasperation. Exasperation meant ten lashes with a belt.

"Sweetie, he's **trying**. Being a parent is a hard thing, and I know you're hurting, and I know we lied, but it's for a good cause, sweetie!"

"Sure." She kept her voice flat. God forbid she detect sarcasm. Sarcasm was worth twenty.

"We don't like hurting you. Or humiliating you. But it serves a purposes that is stronger than anything you can imagine, and we just need you to be strong with us no matter how much it hurts or how embarrassed you get-"

"Okay." She tried to avoid any tone of rebellion. Rebellion… the punishment for rebellion had left her unable to walk straight for days.

A longer silence.

"One day," her mother spoke softly, "when you have children of your own-"

"I'm not going to have children."

Her mother stopped. "Why not, honey?"

Faith kept making sandwiches. 40 down, 50 to go. "Because if this keeps up, I don't know if I'll live long enough to."

She turned, letting her mother see her badly swollen eye and the cut on her lip. Her bruised cheek. She was beautiful, with her blonde hair and figure, her current injuries regardless, but her appearance clearly showed these disciplinary sessions were taking their toll physically and emotionally. She limped as she walked- her father had thrown her during her punishment and she banged her knee bad as she fell.

And for once, her mother did not have a sermon ready for her.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Grace Wellfields entered her husband's study as he sat, writing.

Her husband, Matthew, looked up. "How is she?"

Her expression said it all. Downcast eyes, hinting at tears to come. Hugging herself.

Matthew sighed. "I know, I know… I went too far again, but if I let up on her now, she'll become rebellious. We have to keep clamping down on her, keep punishing her **before **she sins, and you know that-"

"-I do know that, but… honey, she's getting worse grades because you keep holding these parties and insisting she do the work, and she's not having any time to study. Or rest."

Matthew's face flooded with guilt, but only for a moment. "God will show her a way to excel and obey."

Grace refrained from stating that was at least the 267th time he'd said that incredibly corny rhyme regarding Faith, and he had yet to offer a solution beyond divine intervention or breaking the laws of time and space. He had made the rhyme, 'find a way to excel and obey' to put the burden of total obedience to every whim of a parent and still maintain perfect grades and standing in society on a child's shoulders. It was an oft-quoted one by parents who attended his sermons on child-rearing, but now, after being used so many times, it was hollow, shoddy.

"We forgot her birthday. Again."

"We didn't forget, Grace, we agreed, remember, that we had to clamp down on her during her teens. That means no privileges, daily punishment, no parties…"

"But she wasn't rebellious to begin with!"

Matthew started to speak, then stopped. No, Faith had never been rebellious. The extra discipline, the sudden clamping down, and the beatings… especially the beatings- had all come as a shock to her on her 13th birthday.

"We promised after that one party we'd make it up to her." Grace said. "She worked even though she had a broken arm-"

A result of a miscommunication. Faith's hymen had broke during gym exercises, and through what, now, at least, seemed a comical series of misinterpretations, Matthew had gotten the idea that Faith was sleeping around, and had punished her with a baseball bat.

Thank God he knew a private doctor. One who was willing to look the other way for a few extra hundred. It meant dipping into the collection, but that was a necessity. He could blame Faith for that, and make a sermon on stealing from the lord…

"We have the party tonight, and then the prayer meeting next Wednesday." Matthew said. "We don't have time to cut her any slack. We need to keep the pressure on, or she's going to rebel. Big time."

"And whose fault is that?" Grace asked.

Matthew didn't reply. "We're so close to leading more people to God… and the sermons on dealing with rebellious teenagers are working. Teens are coming forward at altar call to repent, and thanking god for every spanking and slap! We just need a little more from her…"

More humiliation? More casting her as the bad girl? Using her as a rebellious example? It struck Grace that if they were going to make their own daughter out to be a slut who dabbled in marijuana and wicca they might as well LET her do the things they accused her of…

Matthew paused, in thought. "One month. One more month and then we will make everything up to her."

Grace smiled sadly. "We said that last month, didn't we?"

Matthew sighed. "I know."

The idea had been that they had believed that since, during their teen years, they had been rebellious, so would Faith. And so, at age 13, they had suddenly gone from loving, doting parents to tyrants with paddles and belts, demanding 200% from Faith and giving no praise in return. It was supposed to make her stronger in faith and in body.

But now, after 4 years, the truth was becoming plain to see- the regimen of endless haranguing, spanking, slapping, and lying about their daughter hadn't strengthened Faith. It was killing her, in mind, body, and spirit.

But if they were to admit their faults and let Faith do as she would, their ministry would crumble. Years of work undone overnight.

_God will understand, _Grace told herself. _God will understand. He will forgive us and reward Faith beyond all imagination in heaven._

This was his will, and they were his servants. Faith would accept that soon, maybe once they made it all up to her she would see the wisdom his presence had given them all.

But, as Grace left the study and prepared to set up for the party, she stopped, realized something had changed, in the house, over those four years. The presence of her deity no longer left her feeling at ease in her own home. The light that glowed in the home was strictly artificial. One long ago Faith's school projects had adorned the shelves.

Gone now- she had received ten lashes for each one for 'making idols' on her thirteenth birthday. The first beatings. She had cried and asked Grace why they didn't tell her sooner that she was a sinner.

She had slapped her until her lips and nose bleed onto the carpet and had made her clean the mess, shouting her sermon against idol worship and whipping her legs with a belt.

The place had grown colder, she had told herself that it was a sort of spiritual exothermic reaction- they gave their all into the community and soon would need a spiritual retreat to recharge.

But at times like this, after punishments for the slightest mistake or question, it seemed, the presence of God had abandoned this home.

And something distinctly ungodly had taken its place.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It had taken him two solid hours of tracing futile leads and hunting down email addresses, but finally Calvin had made contact with a supposed adult survivor of these camps.

He had told her about the attempted kidnapping, about the alleged boot camp under Rod and Whip. Now all that was left was waiting for a response.

Many of the stories, edited of all data that could be used to easily trace back the originator, told of second hand accounts of the effects of what were named "The RAW Camps", under the idea that these camps, based on injuries and methods, were at least partially connected. Almost all of the first person accounts- which were rare- helped collaborate this story.

His email account dinged, and he opened it up. A response.

_All I can tell you is that nothing on that website was an exaggeration. The people who run these camps are complete and utter monsters who don't care about rehabilitation, discipline, or anything but satiating their own sick bullying fantasies. And even when I got out they never stopped. They kept calling my parents to speak to me, telling me that they were watching, and if I misbehaved in any way they'd come back for me. That's why no one on these sites wants to give out a name or anything traceable- these people are complete psychopaths._

_Don't bother tracing this further. It's a remote account. And if they find out a kid has been looking into them, they'll find a way to brutalize you. Take it from a survivor- they can't be fought. Your only hope with them is escape. Don't bother looking for me._

And that was that. No elaboration. No telling of her story. Just a warning to lie down and hope they ignored him.

They were bullies. Bullies who grew up to be bigger bullies, but didn't have the guts to pick on other adults, so they turned to picking on kids. These were the people kids like him were expected to obey?

And when they crossed the line from authority to tyrants, the only solution was to hide and hope they overlooked you?

What utter and complete bullshit.

He sighed. 3:15 Pm and he hadn't touched any video games or played. So this was what it was like to become obsessed with something.

He needed to get out of the house. Run around the neighborhood. Swim. SOMETHING.

He had barely made it down the steps when his father stopped him.

"Don't leave the house." He said firmly. His tone was dark, nervous, and his face had a seriousness Calvin had never seen even during his worse antics…

And in a flicker of his eyes, he noticed his father held a death grip on a handgun.

Calvin looked up. Had dad snapped? Had he gone on a crime spree while Calvin wasn't looking? That would be awesome in a crazy sense. Was he going to kill him-

"The man who tried to kidnap you made bail and never came back."

It took Calvin a few seconds to process this. Good side first- the gun wasn't meant for him and no crimes had occurred. Whew.

Bad side- The guy who tried to punch his face in and had a gun meant for him was on the loose.

Fuck. That couldn't be good.

"Go to your room, lock the do-"

Calvin was already half-way up the stairs. Hobbes stirred from the bed as the door slammed and the lock clicked.

"What the hell-"

"The guy from the conference is loose! He made bail-" Calvin began.

"What kind of idiot allows an attempted kidnapper to make bail?!" Hobbes growled, looking out the window briefly before closing it, and pulling the blinds down.

Calvin didn't have a clever answer for him at the moment. Now, instead of wit, he looked to the trappings of his room for improvised defenses. The pocketknife? Maybe if it hit an artery. The baseball bat? Maybe if he hit them in the head.

As he made an increasingly futile list of what would and would not suffice as improvised weaponry, he realized this was no time to be stingy. Desperate, he decided to turn to something he had vowed never to abuse- an ideal he felt separated him from tyrannical adults and their abuses of power.

He pulled from under his dresser a locked box and took from his pocket a brass key, using it to open the padlock. Hobbes noticed this, and his feline eyes widened.

"You're going to-"

Calvin opened the dusty lid, felt the cool plastic handle as he gripped it.

"We're running out of options here."

"Yeah, but that? Remember the last time-"

"I DO remember last time- I won't forget the noodle incident- but these people are psychotic, and we need all the firepower we can get."

The Transmogrifier Gun was pressed back into service.

It was a black water pistol, looking something like a German Luger, aged by the years but infused with a resilience that would put the finest artisans to shame.

It had never been filled with water. Not once. Instead, it drew on equal parts raw desire and chaos, forcibly projecting a field of change, but only if the wielder believed that it could.

It was not an omnipotent tool, Calvin had realized. In areas where the observers were more numerous than Calvin and Hobbes, the disbelief- the acceptance that things supernatural did not exist- crippled the gun's power. It was, in essence, the most powerful when no one else was looking.

Using the gun offensively was out of the question- aside from a gross abuse of what Calvin could only assume was a divinely granted power, it likely wouldn't work- the mind of a typical adult revolved around rules and law, dismissing the metaphysical as hallucination, coincidence, or a trick of the light. It was why everyone never saw Hobbes as anything but a stuffed animal.

But defensively? Turning himself into an insect to evade capture was an effective tactic. And if his family was threatened?

Maybe he could create some rational danger that couldn't be disbelieved- a swarm of hornets. A car fire. It couldn't be too large- he'd found, with experience, the larger the transmogrification, the more fatigue it bestowed on him. The power of the gun carried a price, and he was loathe to find out what would happen if he were to try and bring about some too large and too unnatural into this world. Unconsciousness? Death? Could his very soul be consumed in such an act? He didn't know, and he didn't care to find out.

He tucked the pistol away in his right pocket, then set to barricading the door.

If they wanted into his room, the bastards would have to earn it.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"_At some time, using the discipline of God on your children to purge them daily of the rebellion Satan sends into their hearts- and he's sending right now, ladies and gentlemen, the prince of darkness has a mainline of rebellion straight to your children's hearts that's pumping lies and sin 24 hours a day, seven days a week- at some time or another, while using the rod God has commanded us to use to drive out sin, you will hear them cry. Or rage. Or accuse you of being a child abuser."_

"_And your heart will break. There will be a little voice in the back of your mind, it will say "This is wrong. You are killing your child's spirit and you're breaking their body." It will tell you to at least… ease up. Ease up. That punishing them without solid evidence is unjust. That humiliation and physical punishment do more harm than good. "Ease up." It will say. "Ease up, and they will grow to love you.""_

"_YOU- MUST- NOT- DO- THIS. This is Satan speaking, the hotline from hell, and he doesn't care if you're on the no call list, Satan doesn't have a no-call list! He will interrupt you as you are disciplining, and he will say to ease up, because with every whip of the belt, with every swing of the paddle, you are breaking down his plans for the future, and it is driving him crazy! BUT YOU MUST NOT STOP! Paddle harder! Scream for help to the Lord! Resist the devil, and press on even though they beg for you to stop! No kid ever died of a few lacerations or a busted nose!"_

"_The hardest part for me was when Faith, my own daughter, was found out about participating in Wiccan orgies- don't be deceived, this Wicca business is not harmless new age, it's the same old Satanic deviance from God's will wrapped in bright new packaging. God commanded me to punish her like never before. I won't… go into the details. But during her punishment, blood was drawn, because God demanded it."_

"_And I faltered. I heard that voice. "Ease up, Matthew." "For God's sake, Matthew, you drew blood! You're killing her!" "What if she tells her teachers? What if this? What if that?" And I faltered."_

"_I am human. I won't lie to you. Being a pastor means you become closer to God, it doesn't mean you become one. I nearly dropped the paddle. I nearly apologized. I nearly apologized for disciplining my daughter for selling her virginity to Satan."_

"_It was hard, continuing the punishment. It was the hardest thing, because I thought I had gone from child educator to child abuser. By the time we were done, she feigned that she couldn't walk, and so I had, as God commanded me, to punish her again. And again. Until she got off her sinful behind and went to her room to beg God's forgiveness for being Satan's prostitute. And she was bleeding. I was going to give her some band-aids and some of that band-aid spray to ease the sting, but God said "No. She has to hurt, because she has to learn."_

"_And you know what? Come next morning, she was limping. She was sobbing at breakfast. She wouldn't talk, but she wasn't dead. That's right. Your child will not die when you discipline them."_

"_So, when you go home today, and you, if you've been heeding my sermons, pick up the belt or paddle and take your kids aside for their daily discipline, lay into them. Don't hold back. They're not going to die from it. I guarantee it."_

-Recent Sermon read by Pastor Matthew Wellfields, to thunderous applause by the older attendants of the church

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Riley Goabes had little difficulty infiltrating the "Church of the Unyielding Rod".

He had snickered at the obvious innuendo the name had brought to mind, but knew what the Pastor meant- a rod of punishment, unswayed by innocence or intent, evidence or lack thereof, of pleas of logic or ethos. He had told his superiors at Rod and Whip he suspected potential candidates for RAW membership could be found inside. They had reluctantly agreed to give him a 12-month period to look for potential candidates.

He had found a gold mine. Parents convinced their children were tools of Satan no matter how hard the kids tried to adhere to an ever changing, ever increasing standard! Open advocacy of brutalization and humiliating children for nothing at all to keep 'sin' at bay! A pastor who was a Rod and Whip agent in everything but title who practiced what he preached!

He had watched his daughter, in secret, go about her business, desperately hiding all those bruises and cuts and scars that were the product of her father's rages. He had wondered how the father had kept her from talking, and a covert op had revealed he had planned ahead two-fold- he had spread such inventive stories about her misdeeds that never were- prostitution, drug use, rebellion, paganism, cheating on tests, lying, and so forth. No one would believe her, and even those who knew her outside her home turned on her as the pastor's lies spread.

He was willing to sacrifice his daughter's well-being, both physical and emotional, just to advocate beating a child with whatever was handy whenever the "word of God said to do so". Riley knew, from his training, that all it would take is a few weeks of one-on-one training with a recruiter and the good pastor would happily keep on advocating the paddle under the banner of Rod and Whip.

Then his flock would follow, and they would, under the leadership of their beloved leader in faith, hand over their children to be disciplined by Rod and Whip, to be used to see what punishment techniques broke the body and spirit the quickest.

Riley was, from the start, an unapologetic sadist. He had no desire to instill order in the world- RAW had his total devotion the moment they told him he was allowed to destroy the lives of those younger than him.

He'd discovered what he'd come to accept as his true nature as earlier as high school, after a disastrous relationship with a freshman girl in his senior year ended with him both physically abusing her and using the photos of her naked form he had taken under the guise of arousal and trust to destroy her reputation. He had been so careful not to leave a mark when he hit her, so careful not to leave evidence he was out to destroy her life, and it had paid off. The girl got a full page in the yearbook after they found her hanging from her room's ceiling fan.

To everyone else, it was a senseless suicide, a statistic. To him, it was an epiphany- he was a sadist who enjoyed the destruction of a soul as an art form. That was who he was, and there was no reason he could see to change that.

The little shits running around with their own hopes and dreams for a future would accept soon enough they were nothing more than canvases for his cruelty, Or, rather, he really hoped they wouldn't.

He found the strugglers so much more satisfying to destroy.

He examined himself in his car's mirror- suit was clean, hair was neat, blemishes removed. To the other members of his church, "Joshua Shepards" was a upstanding Christian who had assimilated well into a doctrine that had other nearby churches in an uproar. Occasionally these outside churches would protest, chanting outside the church against the 'cruel and unchristian methods'. Apparently one family who attended the Church of the Unyielding Rod had a son who cracked under the mandatory harsh punishment rituals and killed himself- in guilt, the family had left and apparently started telling stories.

There was always **one **weakling in every group, he'd found- one person who couldn't or wouldn't go through when the going got tough. It was a sickening irony to him- they quit over something he would have called a success.

No time to dwell on that now. Pastor Wellfields was hosting a party, a 'religious gathering' he said. A continuation on the positives of perpetual punishment.

He laughed slightly as he got out of his car to go inside. The entire church it seemed was groomed for RAW from the very beginning- fanatical devotion, few allies… it was as if Riley's work was almost done for him.

It was going to be a shame, when he was done. Faith made the best sandwiches…

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Curtis went to work early, before anyone else woke up, had breakfast as he helped clean up the shop, chatted with customers, and all in all had a pleasant morning. Chutney came by briefly to chat, which put Curtis in what he felt was the closest thing he knew to happy.

After the hell had began, Curtis had steadily grown out of chasing after Michelle, and turned to Chutney as a friend. That friendship blossomed into something… warm. Warm and comforting, a source of strength when everything else was falling apart piece by piece. A while back Chutney had expressed her desire to be something more than good friends, and the hot and heavy makeout session that ensued… it had been a ray of light in what Curtis felt was a perpetual shitstorm.

He couldn't tell his parents about it, of course- their five year war against his happiness had shown time and time again how far they were willing to go to make sure life was hell for Curtis. Even now he wasn't going to talk to them about her.

He hated to say it, but he no longer trusted them. His own family couldn't be trusted with something as minor as who he was seeing at the moment, that was how far it had come.

Would his father beat her? He couldn't say he'd be surprised if he left her maimed or dead if he found out, considering what he was willing to do to family.

His mother would likely just lie. Spread rumors that she was giving him drugs or something. She was willing to lie about him for the past several family reunions, what would she do to someone else.

Barry… Barry could do anything. The little shit would pull any trick in the book if it meant a moment of suffering for Curtis. He might even go so far as to accuse her of sexual harassment. And if he did, Mom and Dad would happily back him up.

On he worked. Gunther did haircuts, Curtis did maintenance. Customers ranted about rude family, rejoiced about Obama's re-election, grumbled about work. Some asked, with barely hidden frowns of disapproval, how Curtis' family was doing.

"Boy, tell that man he needs to pull the brick outta his ass-"

"You gave 'em As, you give 'em everything, and they still giving you shit?"

"What about that little bitch Barry, uh- No offense, Curtis- what has HE done?"

He couldn't argue with that term.

"Back in the day they switched you, grounded you, or something, and then it was over, and that was that. You didn't pull this "well, it still feels like yesterday" shit."

It was nice to have some support. Soon he'd be gone, though. Gone to college, to army, to… somewhere else.

Somewhere else, where he could invite Chutney.

The phone rang as he swept and Gunther cut. No one ever called but telemarketers, so they ignored it.

It kept ringing for three haircuts and Curtis oiling the seats, when finally Gunther picked up the receiver.

"Look, I told you thirty times before, I'm NOT interested in…" He trailed off, and the expression on his face spoke that he was speaking with someone far less pleasant than a telemarketer…

"Hang on." He said icily, and held out the receiver to Curtis.

"Your old man."

DAMN HIM. He was in a good mood and he was doing a great job, and he was going to get to quit an hour early to meet Chutney for pizza, and now the belt-swinging maniac was calling him at work.

He took the receiver as if it were a snake. "Hello?" He was proud his tone held no fear. No longer would he be afraid.

"Hey, Curtis!" Cheerful, joyful. Kind.

**Something was horribly wrong.**

"We're going on vacation-"

"Have fun." Good. He'd have the house to himself. Maybe he could actually go out and have some fun.

"You're coming with us!"

He stood there, stunned, for three seconds before he found the words.

"Like hell I am."

"Curtis, look, we need to reconcile…"

His bullshit alarm flared.

"…and start over as a family. And you need to be a man and stop holding onto your grudges-"

Curtis coughed, choked. "Hang… hang on a sec…" Was this idiot really preaching about forgiveness to him? No, no, he must have misheard. But just in case he didn't…

He put his hand over the mic, and flipped on the speakerphone.

"I'm sorry, what was that dad? Hair got in my throat."

Now, the occupants of Gunther's barbershop heard. "…we need to reconcile and start over as a family. And you need to be a man and stop holding onto your grudges, because-"

There were jeers, curses, and laughs in the Barbershop.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"

"I don't believe it! I honest to Jesus don't believe-"

"Man needs to take his OWN damn advice-"

"Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuullshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"

Curtis spoke as the laughter died down. He wasn't smiling, the only person present who hadn't laughed. Let them laugh their asses off- the comedy of the whole irony had long lost its appeal to him

"Enjoy your vacation without me. I know I will."

Curtis hung up the phone before his father could respond, and went back to sweeping. Yes, there would be hell when he got home. But there was always calling the cops. And he'd be damned if he was going to take any more abuse.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Greg Wilkins hung up the phone, still recoiling after the blast of jeers and his son's cold rebuke. Harry, who had been listening in, raised an eyebrow.

"…That… could have gone better." He said sympathetically.

_No shit._ Though Greg as he put a hand through his fading hair. What happened? Did Curtis grow a thicker spine and bigger balls overnight?

"We need to move fast. If he's getting this bold, he's confident he can take you on. And that means either he has a gun somewhere, or he knows someone who can sell him one."

That remark prompted a brutal search of Curtis' room. Clothes were torn apart, his mattress cut open, books flung open… but no gun. No drugs. No knife. No weapons. Not even porn.

No huge stacks of cash, either. Gunther must've taught Curtis how to open a bank account to handle his pay.

All that stood out was the chunk of rock. What that meant, he didn't know, but Curtis had it on a shelf, like some sort of trophy. Cleaned well, for a bit of rock.

Among them, well written papers given A's. HIGH As. One stated in bright red ink that initially the grader thought it was a copied paper due to the quality, and was pleasantly surprised.

For a moment, a brief moment, Greg felt that perhaps… perhaps he had gone too far, again, with the raid on his room-

-but the Big Man inside him reminded him that fake red ink signatures on copied papers were still lies, and he flung the treasured works into a garbage bag.

And if they were real?

Then that was what happened when he talked back to his old man.

"So, no gun here… think his boss could supply him with one?" Greg asked.

Harry nodded. "Or tell him where to get one."

Diane shook her head. "This is so bizarre… you really think he would try to kill us?"

"Ma'am, he abandoned his little brother to die when he was in a **good** mood. What's he going to do now that he's in full pity party mode?" Harry retorted.

There was silence.

"When we get him to the facility, the punishment you inflict before handing him over must be more severe than anything you've done before. Do not worry about breaking bones or causing injury- when we are done, he will have no memory and no scars."

Greg nodded, as if perhaps Harry had mentioned his lawn needed mowing. "But how do we get him to come with us?"

Harry paused momentarily. "We may need to get him to come to you out of a sense of urgency. If he was led to believe his stunt with the phone caused you, to, say… attempt suicide..."

"But who will tell him?" Diane spoke up. "He doesn't trust me or his father, and…"

"I will!"

The three adults turned to Barry, standing in the doorway. Harry sighed.

"Son, this sort of thing will take a great deal of finesse and acting, and I frankly don't see-"

Barry suddenly, inexplicably, as if someone had hit a switch, began to cry and sob. "CURTIS! D-d-d-dad… h-h-he-he took a gun and… OH GAWD, HE'S BLEED-D-ING! I CAN'T MAKE HIM STOP!" Barry continued in this vein for a few seconds, then, as if the switch were reverted, promptly became serene again.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Harry stood there, stunned by the display, and the sincerity of the façade and willingness to crucify his own brother.

He had been warned, that, eventually, he would come across children who were… salvageable. Who were willing to aid. Who were prime candidates for neoidentification and eventual induction into Rod and Whip.

He'd been prepared, yes. But he didn't think he'd find a perfect example so quickly.

Turning to the parents, he smiled. "It seems I stand corrected. Whenever you're ready, we can begin."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jason Fox had got the news at 6:00 am that there was a good chance lunatics from Camp Grindstone were coming over, and not to leave the house.

Instead, he had spent the day rigging his room with a series of booby traps that would put any Home Alone spinoff to shame- a series of switches and buttons armed devices ranging from incapacitating to lethal. A dowel rod lined with razor blades on a spring-loaded lever would slash at the first uninvited person to head through the door. Wires rigged to batteries would deliver powerful shocks to anyone who touched them while armed. A supersoaker, modified to fire concentrated acid, sat nearby on a plastic tray, rigged with a co2 canister so no pumping would be needed- A cruel weapon, made a while back when bullying was a severe problem but never deployed. Another supersoaker, rigged with a lighter and liquid accelerant, stood by in case Jason needed to resort to fire.

Several crude spears made from pool cues loaded on powerful springs were aimed at the door as well. If anyone hostile wanted in, Jason had decided, he'd make them pay dearly.

He made sure Quincy wasn't immediately visible on entry, so that if worse came to worse, at least his pet would survive.

A computer-mounted camera on the front door, linked to his computer, gave him a view of the street outside. At the very least, maybe he could see these Grindstone loonies before they got to him.

A knock at his door made him jump and grab the acid supersoaker. He didn't know how they got inside without him seeing them, but he'd make sure as hell they'd pay-

"Jason?" his mother spoke cautiously. "Sweetie, aren't you taking this a little too far?"

Jason breathed with relief, set the corrosive weapon down on its tray. "No."

"We've got a court order against them entering the house or approaching you, honey. It's going to be okay."

A court order. How quaint- she actually believed that this little lethal game of cat and mouse was abiding by any set of ethical rules.

"Just because it's illegal doesn't mean it won't be done." Jason replied.

A pause. "How many traps have you set up?" the tone indicated exasperation and concern- only one of those Jason needed right now- but nonetheless he felt obliged to give an answer.

"Not enough. But as long as they don't send more than ten I doubt they'll break through."

"Tell me you can at least disarm them-"

"I took those precautions into account." He said simply. The killswitches would safely disarm the traps and allow him to exit and enter as needed. He glanced at the computer- the display showed a van pulling up to the Fox doorstep, and four men got out. Dressed in jeans and black shirts, a quick glance didn't show any weapons… but then they started knocking.

He set a remote control tape recorder on a stool nearby and moved over to a corner to the right of his door, out of immediate view on entry. Making sure the traps were armed and grabbing both chemical weapons, he forced himself to breathe slowly, igniting the lighter on the flamethrower supersoaker.

The knocking grew louder.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Roger Fox had black matte boards taped over the front windows so that no one could see in- a move that initially felt paranoid, but now gave him some reassurance. Taking out the revolver had felt utterly insane. Now, it too, was a comforting weight in his hand- if legal threats failed, there was always ballistics.

A knock from the door prompted him to cock the gun.

"Mr. Fox? It's the Grindstone association."

"We have a court order against you being within 500 ft of this house or our children, and I'm not interested in your camps. LEAVE."

"Mr. Fox, we just want to talk to Jason…"

"Too damn bad."

"I must insist, Mr. Fox, that you let us speak to Jason. Children his age need structure and discipline, particularly those with abnormal interest in sciences. They need to be taught humility and obedience early and often, and for the sake of his future and ours, I am going to have to demand you open this door." An authoritarian tone, the kind not used to being denied.

Roger simply hit the speed dial on his cell for a police officer's number. "Yeah, Officer Barkley? They're here, and they're trying to get in-"

"Mr. Fox, let's be reasonable about this- your son is a danger to society, and his little experiments with rockets and other acts of questionable legality warrant intense disciplinary action-"

Were these people completely and utterly insane? Coming to complete stranger's houses because they picked up a pamphlet? He'd saw some articles describing agents of Grindstone as pushy and arrogant, but nothing like this…

"We're on our way. Three minutes, tops." The cop assured him. Sirens blared in the background.

Roger leveled the pistol at the door. "Hurry." He hissed. "The Cops are on their way," He announced. Maybe that would deter them…

The door rattled as something heavy hit it.

-or maybe not.

Sharp ears picked up rapid footsteps outside the walls of his home. It took him only a split second to understand- they were going to attack from both doors.

"ANDY, GET UPSTAI-"

The front door fell. Roger fired at the man, caucasian and powerfully built, as he entered, hitting him squarely in the stomach- the .44 round ripped through him and he fell onto the floor, gasping in pain.

He saw his wife dart up the stairs even as the back door crashed open, he rounded the corner and fired…

…missing due to suddenly having to follow his wife upstairs as multiple handgun rounds shot past his head.

The world had gone completely mad. People from nazi death camps were trying to steal his children and were willing to kill him to get to him.

He had cleared the last step, firing three wild rounds behind him- two missed flat out. One nicked a handgun wielding man and he staggered. His partner fired two more rounds, both narrowly missing.

One round left. Two men. He had to reload, and he cursed himself for not carrying more bullets…

He fired his last round as he made a mad dash for his bedroom- missing but forcing the uninjured assailant to duck to avoid being hit.

His wife slammed the door shut even as he fumbled with the rounds.

His son had told him, earlier, had he was going to rig the room in case this sort of thing happened. He had dismissed it as paranoia- sane adults simply didn't DO something this blatant- but now the rules had changed, sanity was gone, and in its place something out of a bad horror movie.

Many times he prayed that Jason's machinations wouldn't hurt anyone. Now, as he realized painfully, slowly, that he couldn't get to them before they got to him, he prayed that God would make each of Jason's traps a lethal deathtrap in their own right.

He would defend his son in court even if it cost him the house- he just didn't want him dead.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jason had heard the noises from the wall outside his window, and immediately deduced that someone was trying to scale the wall to his room.

Bold. Almost admirable. He had to give the man credit for going for a tactic that was considered outdated and thus unexpected.

Terribly ineffective.

He pulled a lever, and a bucket of the same concentrated acid he'd placed in his modified squirt gun tipped to spill its contents down from the window. A scream, followed by a dull thud. The acid likely hit the climber in the face, and knowing the potency would leave him blind, in agony, or both. The fall probably didn't help him either.

Kicks rattled his door and brought him back to reality.

"Open up, kid, and this will go a lot easier…"

He clicked the remote rigged to the recorder. "Fuck you and the mother who never loved you." It was a two-fold ploy- one, to give them a false idea of where he was in the room to draw their fire, two, to enrage them to open the door without thinking.

_Please be stupid. _He prayed. _Please be stupid and open the door-_

Apparently his prayers were not unheard, as the door gave, and the first trap, the razor stick, inspired by ancient Aztec weaponry, swung at what he'd calculated to be neck level…

A staggering adult white male, clutching his bleeding neck, told him he was correct in his assumptions. He stumbled into the mass of wires, spasmed and smoldered as the electricity suddenly surged through him, and went down.

The second man kicked his smoking companion aside and fired, nicking Jason's left arm…

But through the pain he growled, and lifted the caustic-filled water gun, firing it at the man's face even as he stepped on a homemade pressure plate. The jet of acid struck him in the left eye, and as the scorching liquid continued to corrode his face he screamed, dropped his pistol…

And that's when the pool cue spears shot forward, propelled by powerful springs, stabbing him in the arm, leg, and through his gut. He gargled a scream of agony as the acid found it's way into his mouth, Jason not easing off the trigger until the reservoir was spent. The acrid fumes filled the room and he closed his eyes to avoid going blind, fumbling for a pair of goggles…

His left arm hurt, but was still working. That was a plus. The goggles in place, he opened his eyes…

Okay, damage assessment time. He was hurt- that would require stitches, maybe, but he wasn't maimed. The same could not be said for the agents. One lay bleeding out from his neck, still smoking from the wire trap. The other's face was sloughing off, and he bled profusely. He writhed, struggling, for a few seconds, then was still, no longer breathing.

For three seconds Jason dreaded having to clean up the mess.

Then, with a horrible realization, the reality that he had killed two, maybe three people hit him, and against his will, he doubled over, retching, vomiting and choking, trying not to breathe in the acid fumes…

He fled to the window, trying to get fresh air… looked down…

The third agent lay on the grass, upper torso burnt from the acid, neck at an angle that clearly spoke that he would never get up again.

Jason emptied his stomach until there was nothing left, breathing the unpoisoned air, then, dropping his empty acid gun, took the unused flamethrower in both hands.

The closet he locked Quincy in was still shut, and with the fumes ventilating, his safety wasn't an immediate issue. He stepped over the corpses, heard a footstep to his left, screamed as he brought the flamethrower to bear on the target…

"DIE YOU MOTHERFU-"

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY SO-"

Roger and Jason looked at each other momentarily, respective weapons leveled at each other for a moment, then, as one, lowered them.

"…a flame thrower supersoaker? Seriously?" Roger asked with a mixture of concern and incredulity. His gaze locked on Jason's wounded arm.

"You're the one holding the magnum. There were four. I got three."

Jason was glad he had nothing left to vomit, because how easily those last words came out sent him into dry heaves.

"…Okay." Roger said, not being able to conjure up words beyond simple affirmation. He went over to the stairwell, looked down, jerked the gun up and fired twice.

His father had killed a man. There was no doubt in his mind.

Roger turned, slowly, after seemingly making sure his target wouldn't get up. He looked as though he'd aged 20 years during the ordeal. "…went for his gun." He choked out.

Jason nodded, slowly.

"…you can shut the flamethrower off, Jason. It's over."

Jason clicked off the lighter, but knew, even as Paige and Peter emerged to ask what the hell happened, as his father hugged him as tears he did not ask for fell, that it wasn't over. Not when this could happen.

Paige screamed as she saw the body on the downstairs floor, and retreated to her room, slamming the door shut. Jason couldn't blame her.

Peter looked into Jason's room and swore. "…what the fuck… what the fuck… what the FUCK, man? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?"

Jason sank to the floor, drained.

What had happened? The world had gone mad. Whatever God was watching over them had up and left, leaving the keys to Pandora's box to a entity far less benevolent, and now the insanity and evil was flooding the streets.

Two days. Two days ago he had been planning to make rockets and play video games, annoy his sister, surf the net. Two days later, his world had gone completely insane.

Sirens blared in the distance. The police were coming to clean up the bodies- a morbid garbage disposal service.

_Our tax dollars at work._ He thought bitterly.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Calvin had seen the car pull up, a single man, powerfully built, in military fatigues, step out.

"Hide in the closet." He instructed Hobbes.

"He's just one man, I can take him-"

"He doesn't believe!" Calvin countered. "He doesn't believe, so you can't hurt him!"

Hobbes growled in protest, but relented. The words were too true- even as the Transmogrifier gun failed to yield results when in the presence of disbelief, so he was inanimate when unbelievers looked at him, and so he was best left in the closet for now- if his doll form was damaged, then so was his real form, the one Calvin saw.

Banging from downstairs.

_One chance. _Calvin promised. _I'll give the fool one chance to walk away, then all bets are off._

He reached under his bed and pulled out a toy rifle, designed only to make a loud pop with the trigger was pulled. The orange cap was a dead giveaway as to its non-lethality, and using it as a bludgeoning tool was a futile gambit.

But once, while visiting Uncle Max, he had been shown, under Max's supervision, how to shoot and clean a real rifle.

Shown how it worked.

And that lesson, innocuous as it may seem, meant all the difference now, because with understanding how something worked, Calvin had found, it was a lot easier to use the Transmogrifier to make something that looked similar work like the article in question.

But… he had locked it away, out of the realization that using it too often would lead to too many questions, too much responsibility. And even if he could abuse it discretely, he was no better than so many adults who abused their powers…

But now was not the time for personal ethics.

He prayed whatever deity let him use this miracle would forgive his actions today.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Derrick Halgins held the semi-automatic in his right hand even as he called the police with the other, hearing the increasingly loud banging on his front door.

"I just want to talk to Calvin. If he's going to badmouth us he should at least hear our side-"

"We did. It was a psychotic rant. Now leave." Derrick retorted.

"Sir, I've heard about the incident, but I've also heard about your son. The havoc at school and the neighborhood? The disturbing snow sculptures? The noodle incident, for God's sakes-"

"That was an accident. A judge and jury decided that." He cocked the gun, silently feeling a twinge of pride for his son. The kid had become a legend.

"Accident or not, he needs discipline, and grades regardless, for the sake of our nation, I must insist you open this door. I just want to talk to him."

"You sent one psychopath after him already. You're not getting a second chance."

"Mr. Halgins, I can break down this door, or you can let me in and I'll go a whole lot easier on your son. Your call." The voice had lost any trace of reason, now.

"You set one foot in here and so help me God I will pump you full of lead…"

With one brutal kick, the door flew off its hinges, revealing the assailant- blonde with a crewcut, in military fatigues…

Derrick emptied the clip into the man's chest, and he staggered, grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling…

In the split second he had, Derrick realized the man had on armor, before a brass-knuckle covered fist crashed into his jaw. He fell, and the wind rushed out of him as the man began to stomp on his stomach and kick at his head…

He heard Betty scream, saw her lunge at the man with a kitchen knife… she managed to cut him twice before he slammed an elbow into her gut, knocked the knife from her hand, swept her legs from under her, and fell onto her, brutally slamming elbows and fists into her face…

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Issac couldn't believe the thrill he was getting.

Rod and Whip had promised him he'd get the same thrill he gotten from beating his wife and kids, and now they were delivering. He'd knocked out the dad, and now he was working over the Mom.

She scream, and he smiled as he slammed a fist into her chest, causing her to cough as he slammed an elbow into her temple.

If all went well he could have some fun with her, drag the boy down once his partner got her, show him the violated remains and-

BLAM "GET THE FUCK OFF MY" BLAM "WIFE YOU" BLAM "SICK PIECE OF SHIT"

Rounds pierced his unprotected arms and his left leg, and he staggered… he drew back his hand for one last blow- if nothing else he'd kill the bitch, and leave the naysayer without a Mom-

He then found this difficult as the mom, disturbingly less broken and more utterly outraged, retrieved the knife and plunged the tip into his right eye…

He fell back, heard them both get to their feet…

Then the blows came, and he tried to cover up, but they just moved to his unprotected areas…

First his good leg gave. Then the dad shot him again in his wounded left arm- once, twice… stomping on it…

His world became nothing but pain as the mother ground her heel into his crotch, and he screamed, only to be cut short by a stomp from the father to his throat…

Then there was blackness.

Then there was heat. Uncomfortable heat, like he was approaching a furnace…

Heat, and a distinct, unshakable feeling that what was coming next would make the prior humiliating beating seem like a picnic.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Calvin heard the commotion, heard the shots… feared the worst, but heard his father and mother cursing in ways he'd never dared, and knew they came out on top…

Good. Because now he had a bigger problem to worry about. One guy was coming up to the window, and from the glimpse he got, was armed… and he wasn't. Escape wasn't an option, his own barricade trapped him inside his room

He took the toy rifle, leveled the Transmogrifier at it, and thought deeply.

_This isn't a toy. It's a fully functional .32 hunting rifle, fully loaded and operational._

He remembered the lectures Uncle Max had given, how a gun was not a toy and that it would kill, and if he screwed around, there would be hell to pay…

_Change for me._ He pleaded as he pulled the trigger. _Change for me._

What happened next requires an acceptance of the metaphysical, a rejection of that which is and is not as concrete things. To fully understand what happened, one must accept that the very stuff of creation can be radically changed by a 13 year old boy, holding a pistol he **believes **will make something into something else as long as those present **believe** in what he's doing.

Before his eyes, the toy changed, shook, expanded, losing the orange tip that marked it as harmless, losing the childish sheen, becoming bigger, heavier, smelling of oil and shining as if newly made…

He picked it up, pausing a moment to admire the weight and feel of it. If this wasn't real-

He looked up, saw the man in fatigues entering through the window…

-then he was proper fucked.

He dropped his transmogrifier to level the rifle at the would-be assailant, who blinked, momentarily, clearly not expecting his prey to be armed…

BLAM. The rifle butt jerked back into his shoulder and he winced, but the agent, clad in what Calvin could only assume was black sweats with crude body armor underneath, nearly fell back out the window, saved only by his hand gripping the side…

Damn, that was a kick.

The man was still standing, staggered- the thickness of his chest suggested body armor- and Calvin cocked the rifle, fired again…

And this time the impact sent his target screaming out the window…

Looking out the window, Calvin heard two things that were music to his ears- the moaning of a crippled asshole adult and police sirens. The man's legs and arms clearly suggested he wouldn't be getting up any time soon, so he had a breather.

He grabbed the Transmogrifier again, and, pulling the trigger, willed it to change back into a harmless, plastic toy, and reality obliged, happily reverting the firearm to its previous innocuous state.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Derrick continued to drive his foot onto the bastard's face even when he suspected he wasn't breathing any more, rage at the violation of his home and mate fueling his blows.

He knew he'd feel remorse later, but the son of a bitch had hurt his wife and threatened his kid. And anyone who did that left in a body bag.

Eventually, he stopped. He looked to his wife. Nasty bruises and cuts. He probably looked like hell himself- his jaw felt like it was on fire, his stomach ached, and the side of his head where he was kicked was bleeding…

Two gunshots from upstairs brought him out of his daze. He and his wife, without a word, made a mad dash for Calvin's room…

"CALVIN!" his wife screamed! "CAL-"

"I'm alright," came his son's reply.

THANK GOD.

"Crazy bastard fell out the window."

"Did he hit you?"

"No, he missed when I stuck my head out the window. What the hell was this, anyway?" The sounds of furniture being moved- Calvin was removing his barricade.

"Fuck, son, I don't know…" He caught himself… "Sorry."

"No, dad, 'fuck' and 'fucked' are pretty appropriate now-" he opened the door, his eyes going wide.

"Jesus Christ, mom, dad-"

"It's just a few bumps and bruises-" Derrick's body throbbed to painfully correct his lie "we'll need a doc, but we'll be fine…"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

They had hurt his mother and father.

They had broke into his home, and hurt the two people he loved.

The rules of engagement had changed- neutralization was no longer the priority, elimination was.

Any guilt he felt about using lethal force vaporized as a rage overtook him- he went into his room, retrieved a small aluminum baseball bat, his eye twitching…

"Calvin, what're you doing…" He mother asked.

"Don't go downstairs-" His father shouted.

He noticed the dead body, and realized, with a chilling sensation, it did not bother him one bit. The moment they hurt his family, their lives were forfeit.

Fuck them and their sadistic kid-hate. They wanted to play "who's the biggest bastard"?

That was just fine. Calvin knew the game well, and was more than willing to give the last remaining opposing player some pointers.

He casually strode out into the backward, hefting the bat over his right shoulder, approaching the wounded man who lay sprawled in the grass.

"You rotten little shit-" the man spat. "You and your family are dead, you hear me! If we don't report back-"

God, these idiots could talk. Fortunately, Calvin had a solution to such an irritation.

In one fluid motion, he gripped the bat with both hands and swung it down onto the man's face with a sickening crunch. A howl of pain and incoherent attempts at swearing followed.

The battered agent reached for his gun a few feet away. Calvin strode over, and gently kicked it out of range, turned, and brought the bat down on the arm. Another crack like dry wood, a scream turned into pained gasps.

Calvin leaned down so the man could see him.

"You're going to tell me who sent you, why they want me, and where I can tell the police to find them." Calvin did his best to keep his tone polite, friendly. The boy got a face full of bloody saliva for his trouble.

Clearly the man needed more education as to who was in charge here. He strolled over to the legs, and jabbed at a dislocated knee with the tip of the bat roughly- a scream and a curse.

He wiped off the spittle with his shirt as the man fought to regain his breath.

"You sick little bastard…"

"Sick?" Calvin chuckled. "I'm not the one breaking into homes to kidnap kids. I'm not the one running death camps. I'm not the dumbass who thought he could break into my home and walk away unscathed. You, however, are."

Calvin suddenly and viciously slammed the bat down on the right section of his ribs, and the man rasped in agony…

"I won't talk." He breathed out. "You can wail on me all day, I'm not saying shit-"

Calvin raised the bat, now smudged with blood, again- the man's bravery began to fade. "Interesting theory. Allow me to thoroughly test it."

"CALVIN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" his father, just a few feet away, looked at him in horror and disbelief.

Unbidden, Calvin felt the hot sting of shame tinge his cheeks, but that withered under the fact this jackass had just tried to kill him.

"Beating the living hell out of someone who hurt my family." He replied.

"Don't." His dad said firmly.

"His partner just tried to kill you-"

"And he's dead. Yes, this scumbag deserves to be beaten within an inch of his life, but he doesn't deserve to die."

"Why, dad?" Calvin said, disbelieving. "These shits torture kids for fun. Why the hell shouldn't we kill them?!"

There was a dark look on his father's face, bloodied and battered as it was, and even as it made Calvin shrink back in fear, he was impressed- he didn't think the old man had it in him.

"Because he hurt my wife and he tried to hurt my kid." His dad growled. "and anyone who does that is going to suffer-painfully- for a long, long time if I have anything to say about it."

Calvin looked down on the sad wreck of a human being that laid before him.

He'd be doing the world a favor if he just wailed on this asshole, wailed on him until every bone broke, every organ rupture, and-

…no.

He dropped the bat.

Just… no.

There were lines. Lines that separated people like him from people like the idiot he was going to beat to death. Lines that defined who was salvageable and who wasn't, and as macho as he may have felt, he realized that in the end, he wasn't willing to cross the line called murder yet unless he absolutely had to.

That was how the good guys differentiated themselves from the bad- they killed only when absolutely necessary.

He leaned up against the wall of his house, the adrenaline wearing off, hearing neighbors shout and sirens blare…

Starting the summer off with a body count and a police report couldn't possibly bode well.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Riley Goabes, under the guise of Jonathan Shepards, listened intently and took notes on Matthew Wellfield's sermon- the notes were two-fold, it made him look like a genuine member of the church, allaying suspicion and doubt.

It also gave him some insight onto religious children. He had thought, originally, that using religion and an afterlife to cow youth into accepting harsh punishments was at best a temporary strategy. But now, he saw, that as long as the target could be convinced of a hell, and that accepting these beatings and repenting for their being necessary might prevent descent into hell on death, the target would be less willing to break free.

And so as he wrote he did not have to fake his admiration and awe. Here he thought it would be entirely him teaching them.

"As you may know, this church doesn't preach a popular idea. God never promised popularity in the package, friends- "You WILL be a stranger in your own city." It doesn't help that two of our former members are out there, day-and-night working with Satan to ruin our church." Matthew spoke, his voice carrying throughout the living room.

"For those of you-" he nodded at Jonathan "-who weren't with us, the Farence family was with us and was willing to follow our way of discipline, and I'll admit they were pretty loyal- right up until their son, an obnoxious "I didn't do anything" little shit, had an emo-attack after a punishment session and hung himself."

"You know and I know that this is a sign from God that boy wasn't fit to live in his kingdom, and that he's burning in hell right now with the other liars, thieves, whores, and those who speak against the last few true Christians. But they wouldn't accept that, and so, after a failed lawsuit against us, they started working with all manner of hippie societies. 'No whipping zone', 'Hittinghurts', insane groups like that."

"Let me be very blunt with you- this is the end times. First, they will take away our rods. Then our paddles. Then they take our bibles. Pretty, soon, ladies and gentlemen, the entitlement-complex youth who aren't daily being beaten clean of their sin potential are going to start marching through the streets, the emblem of Satan on their foreheads, killing and raping and stealing, and all the naysayers and hippies will still say, "spare the rod". "Spare the rod" will be their last words."

There was silence as Matthew paused, eyes looking at him expectantly.

"…we have tried, with Faith. God almighty, how we have tried."

Here, Riley saw the telltale, nigh imperceptible shift of eyes and twitch of lips that indicated more false-badmouthing of his daughter.

"…We will continue to try, and we expect you to continue to try to drive out the sin in your children's hearts, but as God as my witness, I honestly suspect we were given her as a constant test of our faith, my wife and I."

"Sometimes, I see her, and I wonder if there's a fragment of the obedient little girl I knew in there. Then, I find out she's been stealing from the church offerings again for drugs, or sex- I don't know at this point- and I realize… she's gone. She's gone, and there is **nothing** left of her, because we started punishing her AFTER the sin showed up."

Sympathetic gazes and 'awwws.' Riley had to admit, the man had a shaky start, but once he got into it, Matthew could bullshit up a storm.

"If you want to see your kid become the stuff of parent's nightmares, if you want to see Satan's work manifest in your kid, then don't whip or slap them. Be my guest. If, however, you want your kids to be with you, in heaven, while the rest of the world goes mad, then press on. Hit harder. Do. Not. Relent."

Riley joined in the applause as Matthew continued his weary father façade even as he sat down.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

In her room, having showered to wash the dried blood and sweat off her, Faith realized that she simply didn't have the energy for math or literature.

Any motivation for trying to succeed when her father's lies had poisoned everyone's opinion of her- or, at least, the people she was allowed contact with- was gone. She'd just get punished again either way. They'd find something.

It took her twenty minutes to find a position on her bed that wasn't agonizing, but almost immediately, she began to dream.

She was inside a giant lavatory, with no stall walls, and on the toilets were the adult members of the church congregation, oblivious, it seemed to their exposure. They were sitting their, pants down, reading their bibles.

She was horrified for a moment that they might see her, but, as one's gaze swept through her with no reaction, she realized, by some… miracle, they had not seen her.

The sounds of defecation filled the air, devoid of shame or restraint. Faith felt herself blanch.

What the HELL was with her subconscious?

Then, almost in unison, the congregation began to rip pages out of the bible and wipe themselves with them… she suddenly became grateful her olfactory senses were not with her.

"**This is what they are doing."** A voice boomed.

Okay, Faith decided. It was official. She'd snapped. Completely and utterly gone ins-

"**You are not delusional. Your father is."  
**

Okay. That was mildly reassuring to know her sentiments were not alone.

"**Run. Run past the school, past the church, past everything you know, and seek help."**

And with a start, she awoke.

Had God spoken to her?

Was she finally cracking up?

Was her own mind turning against her?

She thought for a few moments. Staying here… her father and mother were never going to stop. Never. Not if it meant looking like they were fallible. Staying here, in this home, was suicide of the slowest and most painful sort.

If it was divine revelation, then God had finally taken pity on her and had given her his blessing to get out of there. If she was insane, she could get institutionalized. Both sounded a whole lot better.

Amens and preaching resounded from the living room. Painfully, slowly, Faith got dressed, put some minor possessions in a backpack, left a note she prepared for this occasion, and started for the front door.

It was the most agonizing 30 seconds of her life. Her steps seemed deafening, she dared to move only when the preaching grew loud, and soon, she was at the door…

It would squeak. It would squeak, and they would hear, and she would be caught-

His father began a loud, shouting sermon on how to punish a child. Thank God for ego-trips.

As gingerly as she could, she opened the door, and when her family and the congregation did not hear and pursue, she crouched, moving as quickly as possible, avoiding the windows.

Then, with stamina and power she could only attribute to either divine force or her madness, she ran/limped as fast as she could.

She would be free or she would die.

Liberty or death.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Out of the corner of his eye, Riley saw a shape limp into the darkness, moving away from the house.

His first impulse was to alert the pastor so the whole congregation could get in a good thrashing of the impudent little girl, but… he realized, there was much more he could do.

The pastor genuinely believed in divine intervention, divine appointment, and all that religious nonsense.

It was time, Riley decided, to test the pastor's faith.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

So he had lied yet again about his daughter and made her out to be irredeemable.

So he had taught God demanded perpetual punishment.

It was a lesser sin than admitting fault and losing the congregation, he'd decided.

The last member of his church had gone home, all save for Jonathan, who remained in private.

He greeted him warmly and shook his hand. "Wasn't sure about you for a while, brother. But I'm glad to know you're genuine about your faith."

Jonathan nodded. "I am, pastor. Just not in the way you've come to believe."

Matthew's face fell a mile-

"I am not with the heathens who are out to destroy you and your God's work, Pastor. No, I am an ally, called here by a… guess, if you will."

Jonathan smiled, a warm grin that should have put him at ease… but didn't.

"Faith hasn't **really** been stealing from the offerings, has she? She hasn't been smoking, doing drugs, having sex, or… let's face it, anything, aside from growing more and more bitter."

Matthew's fist snapped out, trying to knock the man down, but with an agility he couldn't- _shouldn't_ have, Jonathan jerked to the side and the punch met only air.

"Whoa, take it easy. I'm not here to rat you out- you are correct, Matthew, whether you believe it or not- perpetual punishment, from day 1 onwards, is the only way the kids of today can be turned away from lives of crime."

Matthew was about to strike again, but stopped.

"You think you're exaggerating. You think you're doing a lesser wrong to avoid a greater wrong. You're not- you have been righteous from the day you started beating Faith, and all these… doubts, these fears you're feeling? Remember your sermon? About easing up?"

Could it have happened? Matthew felt his stomach turn.

Could he have been preaching the TRUTH, all along, even without realizing it, and what he thought was the façade was real and the real was Satan's lies gnawing at him?

"She wasn't rebellious- not blatantly. But it's plain to see to anyone who looks at Faith- she's a traitor. She isn't going to love or respect you, belting or hugs or presents or paddlings regardless. She's a natural born backstabber, beyond redemption from the moment she began to breathe. And she's endured **just** enough beatings and bruising to collect enough evidence to tear down all your hard work."

DAMNATION!

How could he have been so blind?!

Faith wasn't rebelling because he was playing RIGHT INTO her trap. Her body was the evidence. If a police officer or a person from one of those… agencies got her… it was over.

He turned to head to his daughter's room. If he had to nail her to the wall and keep her on a ball and chain, then so be it-

He noticed the front door was slightly ajar, and panic took him. Rushing to his daughter's room, he found nothing, nothing save for a sheet of notebook paper. Snatching it up, he read.

_You lied when you said you loved me. You lied when you said it was all for my own good. You and mom lied about me to everyone who'd listen. You're lying to yourself, me, and everyone, and I'm sick of living someplace where lies replace truth because you don't want to look bad._

_I'm looking for my own truth, now. But first, I'm going to tell the world the truth about you._

_Tell mom I said to burn in hell._

_-Faith __Wellfields __X_

His loud cursing brought his wife into the room, and he felt the ground beneath him begin to sway. This **wasn't **supposed to happen. They were going to let her be redeemed, tell the church they'd finally driven the evil out of her… if only she'd been a little stronger.

"She's gone. She up and left…" he choked out.

Grace did not take it well, falling to her knees and screaming, tearing out her hair. From the doorway, Jonathan watched, what passed for sympathy playing on his face.

"When she talks, it's all over. Unless you move your church… somewhere else."

Matthew looked at him incredulously. "Somewhere else?! Where? Where could we go?!" This was it. Game Over. Even with all the red tape the feds would move too quick for the entire congregation to relocate…

Jonathan smiled, and this time, it was reassuring…

"I know just the place. Filled with like-minded disciplinarians- maybe not of the Christian faith proper, but devoted to discipline, nevertheless…"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

It was getting to closing time for Curtis. Another day, another step towards independence.

The phone rang as he swept, and Gunther picked up. Instantly he saw his boss; face display shock and alarm.

"Okay, okay, I'll get him now- Curtis, it's Barry, something's happened-"

Curtis grabbed the phone. "Barry? What the hell-"

Panicked screams met his ears, and he recoiled… "Dad… after he… talked to you… started crying… he… he shot himself… I c-can't make him stop bleeding, Curtis!"

Grief and shame flooded Curtis. He couldn't have driven his old man to suicide. No way. No how.

Right?

_Right?_

"Barry, call an ambulance- I'm on my way."

He hung up, turned to Gunther. "I need a ride, now, home. My dad shot himself..."

To Gunther's credit, they paused only to flip the sign to close before he shot off towards Curtis' home…

All through the ride, Curtis wondered what the hell had gone wrong- his dad had only come around recently, why would he react so badly to him turning down a vacation with them? Wasn't he anticipating he wouldn't want to be spending more time with the people who beat him?

Was it the straw that broke the camel's back?

Did his father decide a world where his son didn't love him wasn't worth living in?

Then a nasty thought crept into his mind…

What if it was a lie?

Barry wasn't above lying, certainly. And his father had kept up a lot string of fictional offenses for way of explaining away Curtis' not being allowed to mingle with the family during holidays. Then there was the whole five years of beating thing…

Why the sudden vacation? Did the man honestly think that one unsuccessful reconciliatory meeting would change everything. He was a cruel, vicious man with a smoking addiction, and he had over the years become a liar to continue the punishments, but he wasn't stupid.

"…Gunther, wait."

His boss looked at him incredulously. "WAIT?! Curtis, your father is bleeding to death, and-"

"…I don't think he is." Curtis said.

"What?"

"I think dad wants me home… but I don't know why?"

"You think he's bluffing? Barry was-"

"Barry" Curtis sighed, "is a liar, cheat, and asshole."

But why lie to Curtis about that? Barry had simple motives- looking good to others, getting rewards, and hurting Curtis.

Lying about a serious event wouldn't accomplish either of the former, so that led Curtis to his conclusion that Barry was trying to get him in trouble. Or hurt.

Or both.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and crouched down. "Drive by my house, tell me what you see in front of it."

Gunther blanched, but obliged. His brow furrowed after a bit. "…A black van, your car…"

"No ambulances?"

"No ambulances." He frowned deeper. "…That van doesn't have any license plates on it."

A dozen scenarios ran through Curtis' mind, none of them pleasant. He wasn't sure why his parents would lie to get him home, or why there was an unmarked black van in front of his home, but he wasn't in a hurry to find out.

"Take me back." Curtis whispered. "Get me outta here."

Gunther obligingly made a u-turn, pulling away from his home, taking them back to the barbershop.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Sitting in his own private office, located in his own personal stronghold, the person known as Sir Father sighed.

This was getting out of hand.

He had meant for his troops, his enforcers of order, to be ruthless in their pursuit of naysayers, but he wanted them to act covertly. Intelligently. _Subtly._

And kicking in the doors of two targeted children in broad daylight did not fit into the category of subtlety. Yes, the Halgins kid needed to be taken down, and soon- the consequences of one overzealous agent's actions- but that did not warrant more stupidity.

And the Fox boy- the rationale for him being named a target was that his parents had picked up a brochure and then backing out- that should have never escalated into a raid.

He had to, at least silently, assume partial responsibility. He had been worried the new recruits would get cold feet when it came time to administer the punishments they were called to do, so he had prioritized driving them into a frenzy, increasing their morale, instilling a sense of vindication. In retrospect, he felt he should have focused on the finer points of subtlety.

On his computer he relayed the orders to the Rod and Whip's legal department, telling the lawyers to avoid bailing out the survivors of the two raids. They would serve as examples as to what happened to those who got careless.

Three other agents, however, were at the very least acting more intelligently. Harry was working on a troubled kid in order to get a research subject for the forced neoidentification procedure. Mary was after some hippie single mother who was a staunch advocate against corporal punishment. Riley… Riley had hit a goldmine. A church full of people sympathetic to their cause was a boon- they needed new agents and extra labor.

That left Calvin Halgins to be dealt with. The problem being that the boy had seen too much and wasn't afraid, wasn't hiding. Moreover, the paper he had heard about- decrying the methods Rod and Whip refined- was an offense he could not simply overlook. The boy had to be made an example unto the children of the nations.

Calvin would need to be taken alive, and relatively unhurt if he was to be useful to the cause of Rod and Whip- an annoyance, but necessary. That being accomplished, they could break him physically, mentally, or both, as the situation demanded. If he could be pushed to recant, publicly, then they would have a stepping stone to use. If not, then he was at least silenced.

Either way the boy would suffer- he needed to suffer.

The youth of today had such a problem with talking back to their elder superiors.


	4. Atrocity

Chapter 4: Atrocity

* * *

The sad fact of life is that some people don't feel remorse when they do horrible things- just the opposite. Unrepentant of the damage and pain they inflict, they seek out more victims, treating the sadistic high like a drug that they need stronger and stronger doses of.

It is with these people society must decide whether to attempt to redeem them through therapy or put them down before more innocents are harmed.

* * *

"_Some agents ask what age it is appropriate to begin perpetual punishment of a child. The simplest answer is when you know how to hurt them in ways that will not heal."_

-Introduction to FAQ in Rod and Whip Trainee Manual

* * *

Envision this lovely little scenario.

You're manning the front desk at the local police department, and its 5 minutes to the end of your shift. It has been a long, exhausting, thankless day full of people who raged at you over writing them tickets when they went 60 in a 40 mph zone, refuse to talk to you because 'all cops are pigs', you've been denied promotion- **again**- for reasons no one will bother to explain in English terms, the soda machine ate your last dollar, and all in all, it has been a shitty day, and you just want it to end.

Someone walks in. Your brain says to tell them to come back tomorrow…

Then you look up.

She's a girl in her teens in ragged clothes limping towards you, and to say she looks as if she was hit by a truck would be polite.

No, wait.

You've seen those kind of bruises before when you worked on some domestic abuse cases. Someone- or multiple someones, have been using her as a punching bag.

You pull yourself to your feet and start walking towards her, and she

Just

Breaks.

She starts talking about that one church- the one that preaches "perpetual punishment" or some crazy bullshit that translates to 'beat your kids all the time'. How her father, the pastor lied. How she's been beaten for everything, pleading for protection…

And suddenly as fellow officers come in and stifle curses at her condition, your day doesn't seem so shitty after all.

An hour later at the hospital and the situation is even more fucked up.

Under painkillers as doctors stitch lacerations and anoint bruises, she tells you her parents forbade medical attention, as these injuries were supposed to be 'scars of punishment' or something. There's a untreated sprain in her leg that the doctors need to x-ray.

Multiple bruises and lacerations on her back and legs where she claims she was whipped with a belt. Bruises on her abdomen and chest consistent with punches.

You ask when this all started, and why she never sought help.

And she tells you another horror story.

How on her thirteenth birthday instead of a party her parents began kicking and beating on her. How they belted her ten times for each of her school projects. How they began lying about her having sex and doing drugs. How they lied to her teachers. How they lied to her former friends. How they lied to an entire community to spread their fucked up religion. How they kept her under lock and key to make sure she had minimal opportunity to call for help.

Worst of all? The way she says it implies she's telling the truth. You ask if you can do a lie detector test, and she readily agrees- liars don't handle that query well.

She pleads for protection from her parents, saying that they will kill her if they find her here. And with what they've done already you can't say that's much of an exaggeration.

Suddenly your long shift doesn't seem so bad.

* * *

The disinfectant, cleaning, and stitches didn't hurt so much as the realization did- the epiphany that he and his family were no longer safe.

Get the police to watch his house? They're only human. One agent slips through, and someone could die.

Booby trap the entirety of the house? Assuming the miracle no one but his intended targets triggered the traps, they'd still get wise eventually.

Was hiding an option? If they were willing to go so far as to track him down and break into his house, what wouldn't they do?

Suicide? Would they be satisfied with a report of his death and a repentant note, and leave his family alone?

Sitting in the ER as a doc sewed him up and he answered police inquiries, Jason wondered if only death could save him now.

An officer gave him a disbelieving look. "…you killed three of them with traps. Like, home alone stuff?"

Jason winced as the doctor finished suturing his arm. "Sorta. One tried going up our wall to our window, I poured some acid on him. Two more came through my door, the traps and the acid supersoaker got them."

"Well, since it was forced entry and attempted homicide, no charges will be filed." The officer was trying to be assuring.

His father looked up. "What about these people who attacked us?"

"If we had a survivor from the four who attacked you, we could interrogate them. Right now, our best bet is to keep you and your family under surveillance if they decide to try again." The officer paused. "You still have that brochure you picked up?" he asked Roger.

Roger, looking as if he had gone days without sleep, numbly fumbled in his pocket for the brochure, handing it to the officer. "Phone numbers are on the back. Didn't call them… somehow they found us."

Jason tried to hide his disbelief. Could an organization be so hell-bent on kidnapping random children that they'd target any family that picked up one of their brochures?

Unbelievable as it was, now was not the time, Jason realized, to apply sanity or logic to these people's actions. They were willing to break into a kid's home with body armor and weapons to kidnap, were willing to resort to lethal force just to get at their target, and had little or no sense of self-preservation. Normal people would have ran when cops were called.

More conversation between his father and the cop. More discussion of having several officers posted to watch out for any more invaders.

It was barely a week into summer vacation and the world as he knew it was going insane. At the outset his initial plan had been to game the summer away. Then it had been evasion of the boot camp. Now, with frightening clarity, Jason realized that at the very least, he would spend the summer evading these lunatics.

* * *

Calvin was not in a benevolent mood by any stretch of imagination.

Granted, a home invasion and assault on one's parents would put most children in a bad mood, but now Calvin's anger toed the fine line between righteous indignation and murderous wrath.

Yes, the door was repaired. Yes, his mom and dad got patched up. Yes, the slaying of the one that attacked them was treated as wholly justifiable self-defense. Yes, the one that assaulted him was being grilled- hopefully by someone who looked to shows like 24 for inspiration in their interrogation techniques.

But even the thought of the already badly battered agent going through more beatings and badgering was not enough to sate Calvin. No, this was invasion on his home, assault on his family. Over what?

He had delivered a very vague condemnation of brutal boot camps, and this justified a home invasion? Attacking his parents? Whatever happened to flaming? Were these people so immature that the slightest voice of dissention required armed response?

"Plotting revenge?" Hobbes asked, tensed on the bed, looking out the window of Calvin's room.

"No." Calvin said, still at his computer, looking over the sites dedicated to Grindstone survivors and related incidents. Searching for "Grindstone Home Invasion" got him scant results- but results nevertheless. Some postings about forced entry into the homes of kids and teens that were withdrawn from the programs were available, but the posters had, on further investigation, ceased all contact with the sites they had visited and forum suspicion was that they were lying low- or had been silenced.

On any given previous day it would be an instantly dismissible claim, the attention-whoring of the internet denizens. But now Calvin was beginning to suspect that Rod and Whip, or Grindstone, was willing and capable of any number of actions.

"It still… doesn't make **sense**." Calvin sighed. "Why go after one kid? We're not rich. We're not politically connected. And maybe one or two people would read my blog on a good week. They've nothing to gain and lots to lose."

Hobbes stretched, involuntarily extending his claws, showing white, razor sharp teeth. "Human adults can be lunatics. I would think by now that you would know that. They read books about deities and use them as justification for violence. They beat each other up over sports games. And just yesterday two idiots tried to kill you for writing what amounted to 'Maybe hauling kids off to boot camps isn't always the best solution'."

"Your point?" Calvin asked, turning in his chair.

"My point is that maybe it's not gain that they're looking for. Maybe their belief in this… 'Rod and Whip' thing is so strong it's like a religion. Or a cult."

Calvin blinked. A cult dedicated to child abuse. It sounded utterly bizarre yet made perfect sense- what other reason could they have for attacking him? Was it just their "religion" to quell anyone that even remotely seemed to criticize an aspect of their beliefs?

He blinked as his email client indicated new mail. Clicking on it, he saw he had 126 new messages. Opening his inbox, he could see that they were all the same letter sent multiple times. The email address a random mish-mash of symbols, numbers, and letters- a proxy account no doubt- the letter contained a very brief statement.

"Dear Mr. Calvin Halgins,

It has regrettably come to our attention that upon receiving word of your satisfactory performance thus negating the need for attendance at our rehabilitative center, you were assaulted by one of our retrieval agents. The further actions of two more of our ex-employees have no doubt soured your opinion of Rod and Whip's sincerity and well meaning-"

_No shit, Sherlock._

"-but we wish to assure you these were the actions of a few deranged individuals and not the ideals of the whole. While Rod and Whip prides itself on intense discipline to root out behavioral problems, we do not condone the unauthorized detainment of individuals who no longer need the program. To say that the actions of the two agents who ruthlessly invaded your home were abominable is an understatement, but we assure you, these were disturbed individuals who did not represent the values of Rod and Whip."

Calvin rolled his eyes.

"To clear up any misgivings about what we truly stand for, we will arrange a meeting between you, your parents, and one of our professional staff to assuage any fears about the programs Rod and Whip offers. We hope you will do the right thing and hear us- the real us- out before you finalize your decision on whether or not to enroll this summer. We will be contacting you shortly with the when and where of the meeting."

Calvin frowned at the tone of that last statement- the presumption that of **course** he was going to be willing to sit down and talk to a group of maniacs that had attacked him and his family. That he should simply accept the given explanation of the three agents who had assaulted him being nothing more as addled extremists. The lack of a usable email address to reply to also was a red flag- they were not interested in hearing what he had to say.

"Hobbes?" He called to his tiger friend, who walked over to check out the email. His feline face slowly hardened into a frown.

"Trap." Hobbes deduced sagely.

Calvin nodded in agreement. The heroic thing to do would be to agree to the meeting when they called and then deal with what came then. But seven years of scratches, bumps, bruises, burns, and the occasional broken bone had made Calvin a wiser, if battle-scarred, boy, and that wisdom told him heroics were not what was called for here. He selected the email, and clicked print. He'd forward the message to the police and-

His virus detector suddenly began to spew warning about failure to remove something. Frantically, Calvin began ctrl-alt-deleting to abort the process, only to have his monitor fade to a simple black and white message-

"You don't get to call for help on this one. Take what's coming like a man and you get your computer back."

Then his computer powered down. He tried several times to bring it back up, only to have it power down as soon as it started warming up.

He and Hobbes stared at the screen mutely for about 30 seconds before Calvin sighed, and pulled out the Transmogrifier pistol. "Does stopping a cult dedicated to sadism count as an 'emergency'?" Calvin asked his feline friend.

Hobbes shrugged. "I think that's a question for the philosophers who AREN'T having to deal with a bunch of lunatics."

Calvin nodded, and believed that his computer was five minutes younger than it was. He pulled the trigger, and to the untrained eye nothing changed…

But Hobbes could detect a few minute changes. A speck of dust vanished. The keyboard shifted ever so slightly forward.

Calvin pressed the power button, and as if nothing were wrong, his computer booted back up. Going into safe mode, he had his spyware scanner isolate the email, used a screensave shot to take a photo of the email, and then deleted the mess.

It was an interesting trick, and he felt a twang of guilt for having used the Transmogrifier Gun as a quick fix. Still- these were the people who assaulted his family. Screw playing nice. Screw playing by the rules.

He went downstairs with the photos, got the obligatory panic attacks from his parents, and calls were made to the local police.

* * *

"_My friends… I wished… I prayed… I begged God this day would not come. That I would not have to guide you through this._"

"_But Satan, through my flesh and blood… my own daughter… has declared total war on us. The whore of Babylon in my own house and I never saw it coming. She's gone to the police, bruises and all, to claim 'child abuse'. It pains me to say this, but we, as a family united in our faith and fight against the rebellion in children's hearts, are no longer safe here, in this church."_

"_Do not lose hope, my flock! Do. Not. Lose. Hope. Even as we have enemies from our own flesh and blood, we now have allies. Yes, you heard me right- we are not alone in our convictions!"_

"_God has sent us allies who will not only give us shelter from the armies of Satan, but even now forge a campaign to purge this world of rebellion in youth. I will caution you, their methods may seem to be extreme. But we are no longer in a safe word, my brothers and sisters. We are under attack, and we must fight!"_

"_To ensure that your children do not aid my… traitorous daughter, the Rod and Whip foundation will be sending vans to pick up your children at your homes. Do not fear- they will drive the rebellion wholly from your children if they are willing to submit to God's holy punishment."_

"_I have much more to say, but there is very little time. Pack only the essentials, leave behind worldly goods."_

"_Our allies are generous, but we must work to achieve a place among them, and there will be much to do to prepare for the oncoming battle."_

-Speech by Matthew Wellfields during an emergency meeting of the "Church of the Unyielding Rod"

* * *

12:30 am, May 28th of 2010.

The teens and children of those who go to the "Church of the Unyielding Rod" are asleep trying to recover from yet another day of being reminded how worthless they are in God's eyes and being hit with belts, paddles, hands, all while having carefully modified bible verses screeched at them to break them down.

Some have parents who, after such punishments, say, with what passes for parental love, "It's for your own good, you'll understand eventually."

Others just get thrown a rag and told to mop up their own blood.

A few hold out hope that they can endure and then finally be free. Many ponder escape via running away, or suicide. Many more have lost their faith in God- those who were in another church prior to the Unyielding Rod wonder how their life could have gone so wrong. The optimistic believe things cannot get worse. The more realistic wonder if their parents have any limit.

The Vans, sent by Rod and Whip, arrive quickly at church member houses. Children and teens are torn from their beds. Some resist- the R.A.W. agents pummel them. Others have nothing left in them to resist with- the R.A.W. agents pummel them worse, determined to get some sort of cry of pain. All the while, their parents watch from the sidelines, getting packed. Some parents tell their children they brought this on themselves. Some offer what passes for comfort in that they will see them soon- "this is for your own good."

As the vans pull away with their unwilling captives, and the agents within kick and punch and taser them regardless of resistance or not, some snap, begging for death that will not be granted soon. Some lash out, long buried rebellion exploding in feeble rushes and kicks.

Explanations beyond "you are wicked and must be punished" are not given as the vans drive away, out of the city, beyond the eyes of the law.

When dawn arrives, the homes of the members of Unyielding Rod are devoid of life.

* * *

Curtis was not a master of cunning or psychology, but in his lifetime he had, in his opinion, developed a knack for cutting through bullshit.

There was a way, Curtis realized, as he gave Gunther directions to the DMV his father worked at, to see whether or not his father was truly hurt or if this was a trap- provided one person was willing to cooperate.

His father's current supervisor, a wizened black man of 60, was put off initially by the request to call his employee at home, but conceded- afterall, his employee did call in sick, today, he had a right to ask of his condition.

As he dialed, Curtis spoke. "Mind putting it on speakerphone?"

The man raised an eyebrow but flipped the switch. The dial tone rang once, twice…

"Hello?" came Diane's voice. Serene. Calm. Measured. Not the voice of someone who's husband just put a new hole in their head.

"Yes, Diane? I just wanted to see if Greg was doing better…"

"…Oh, oh yes! He's doing much better…"

Curtis' teeth ground. He could barely hear the conversation now, the red haze of anger building, but the supervisor asking to speak to his father got his attention.

"Hey boss." An exaggerated cough. "Sorry again, this damn cold is killing me."

Curtis spoke before the supervisor did. "Hey dad."

There was dead silence.

"You know, you sound pretty good for someone who just shot himself."

He could hear his father swallow. "Curtis, let me explain." he spoke slowly. "Barry was just worried-"

"I saw the van- wanna explain that?" Curtis let his anger show in his voice, ignoring the bewildered look of the super…

"Curtis, we're going to get you some help-"

"Curtis," another voice, foreign, adult, authoritarian. "Stay where you are and this will go a lot easier."

Curtis felt his stomach drop. His father feigning suicide to get him to come home, followed by strangers demanding he not resist. Suddenly, the stability of an abusive family was preferable to the insanity that was happening now.

It dawned on him, slowly, as he left a bewildered supervisor to deal with the ranting stranger, what was going on- his parents had given up on him, and they were going to hand him over to a complete and total stranger for…

Correction? Brainwashing? Imprisonment? Could his parents be paying someone to **kill **him? They were willing to lie about him and beat him because they couldn't get over his mistake, what was stopping them from going completely off the deep end?

With what nerve he had left, Curtis thought about his options- going home and deal with what was coming was suicide from his experience. Staying at the barbershop would just prolong the inevitable. Going to Chutney's house put her and her family at risk.

As he considered his dwindling options, the summer heat bearing down on him as he stepped out of the DMV, Curtis regarded the city around him with despair. What was once warm and familiar was now cold and ominous. Around every corner lurked strangers hired by once somewhat loving parents gone crazy.

He bit his tongue to fight back tears at the unfairness of it all, the loneliness he felt in his hometown, and dragged himself back to Gunther's car. He could not, he realized, afford to crumble now.

He had a future planned. A rough draft, perhaps, one that involved getting away from his family and then going from there. It needed work, there was never any question about that.

But it was **his** rough draft, not his parents', not his brother's, nor whatever that stranger on the phone wanted with him.

* * *

RECORDED CONVERSATION BETWEEN CALVIN HALGINS AND R.A.W., 2:00 PM, May 29th, 2010. Recorded by Officers Kales and Jones

Calvin: (Picking up) Hello?

RAW: Is this Calvin? (Speaker is male. Caucausian(?), mid 30's)

Calvin: Speaking.

NOTE: Victim is calm, unusually so.

RAW: (stern) I take it you received our email.

Calvin: Yeah, I did-

RAW: (raising voice) You will say 'Yes sir, I did', or 'no sir, I-'

Calvin: -and nice virus trick you pulled, there. Nearly got me.

RAW: (Pause. Tone is of surprise) What?

Calvin: Spyware scanner picked it up. Nice trick. Pity it didn't work, huh?

RAW: I'm going to tell you right off the bat, Calvin, at our Rod and Whip, we don't tolerate your kind of attitude-

Calvin: Attitude? I was just telling you your hack job failed. Chill. Anyway, you said you wanted to contact me about attending your… what's the term for it? Camp? Prison? Gulag?

RAW: Disciplinary Center.

Calvin: Right, 'disciplinary center'. Anyway, after one person burst in on a parent-teacher conference armed with… let me see here… handcuffs, a taser, a handgun, pepper spray… and two more of your people broke down our door and attacked my parents-

RAW: Calvin-

Calvin: We, my parents and I, have decided-

RAW: Hear me out-

Calvin: -that attending your 'disciplinary center' would not be conducive to my health, mental or physical.

RAW: You did read the part where we stated those were the actions of rogue agents-

Calvin: Yeah, I read it. My eyes couldn't stop rolling for hours afterward- You're lucky I don't sue for possible damage to my retinas. Anyway, me going to your torture funhouse or whatever the hell you wanna call it is a moot point. I got the grades. I got the conduct. I don't have to go. Capice?

RAW: (taking a deep breath)Yes, yes we know you got the grades, however… we at Rod and Whip know that kids like you will put out just enough effort to avoid discipline. Take away the threat, and you're back to Ds and Cs and blowing up the cafeteria-

Calvin: Hey, the court, the school, and the CIA eventually agreed it was a gas leak and had I NOT done what I did the damage would have been ten times worse and would have caused several fatalities.

RAW: That aside, you _need _this, Calvin. You need extreme discipline if you're going to survive in this world, and frankly, with your rebellious attitude, your track record, and your work ethic, you're-

Calvin: (Yawns loudly)

RAW: -not going to last one, two years tops once you get into the real world, and-

Calvin: Then woe is me, I am a lost cause, for your honey-sweet words and expert wordplay have failed to pierce this stony heart, please, good sir, give your wonderful gift of child abuse and beating up parents to more worthy children, do not concern yourself with this poor, pasta-detonating wretch, it is, alas, too late for me.

RAW: Calvin-

Calvin: You. Are. Not. Getting. This. The first representative, agent, minion… whatever the fuck you want to call him kicked in a door, tried to take me away despite my parents saying no, and then tried to punch me. The second two beat up my mom and dad, kicked in our door, I had to beat one of them with a baseball bat after he tried climbing through my window… you want to talk about track records? Look at yours. One attempt at kidnapping and assault on me. Then, breaking and entering, assault on my family, attempted kidnapping or murder on myself, and NOW, by your own admission, I received an email from you with a virus, and you're still going with the whole "we have the best intentions" schtick?

RAW: First off, those people were out of line, and disobeyed orders. Second, as for the 'virus' in your email, I don't know how that got there, I'm not a tech wiz. Maybe with all the stuff you kids illegally download these days-

Calvin: Listen… it's been… well, it hasn't been nice talking to you, you're condescending and expect me to jump right into this discipline camp thing after two attacks. We are done discussing this.

RAW: Agreed. A RAW representative will be dispatched to pick you up for transport soon.

Calvin: You get near my home-

RAW: This isn't up for debate, kid.

Calvin: -you get pumped full of lead.

RAW: You are aware death threats are a crime-

Calvin: So's kidnapping. I do not consent to your camp. My parents don't consent. You have no say in my life. _**Fuck. Off.**_

RAW: (pause) We'll be there shortly. Pack lightly.

(Phone call ends.)


	5. Retaliation

Chapter 5: Retaliation

Author: I'd like to take the time to thank you all for your positive reviews. I know with the 'ignore anonymous reviews' this means that you have to log in just to tell me what you think, and that makes me appreciate your feedback even more. Thanks, folks, you are what keeps me writing.

…well, you and questionably legal amounts of caffeine.

…

It seems that those who advocate the harshest discipline are the ones most shocked when those so over-punished lash out- the ones that advocate the most painful and humiliating punishments act with shocked indignation when called out on their cruelty. The idea that some may find their actions barbaric and base, that their victims may not respect them is so alien, so unthinkable to them, that these advocates of draconian justice are surprised when their actions backfire.

…

"_More often than an agent of Rod and Whip would think, there come times where the parents or guardians of children are simply unwilling to submit them to our holy and perfect judgment. In those cases, it is the duty of the agent to, in a sound and covert manner, take matters into his or her own hands, and wrest away the spoiled child from their protectors. In these cases where the separation is done without the parent/guardian's consent, it is not only permitted, but highly advised, to begin ransom tactics as described in chapter 28: Profit from pain."_

"_It is only prudent to keep the victim alive long enough to gain a single ransom payment, after which the child should be disposed of promptly and in accordance with the disposal methods taught as basic training."_

…

Calvin hung up and turned to look at the officers recording the conversation. "So, what do we do now?"

The officer was talking on a radio, muttering some police jargon Calvin didn't understand. "We have backup coming in now. If they make a move, we take them down."

It was a simple plan that would likely involve killing the lunatics after him, and for that Calvin was grateful. Nonetheless, the Transmogrifier Gun was tucked into his pocket, ready for use should the simple plan of having more people with more guns fail to take. He didn't like having to rely on the gun so much, it was like a cheat code in a video game, but here, there was no continuing, no safeguard against the consequences of failure. Bullets maimed and killed.

"Officer Clyde will take you all to the police station so you can be safe if things go from bad to worse. We'll take it from here." The officer indicated a powerfully built man, who led Calvin and his parents out to a car with tinted windows and a blank license plate. A man was already in the back seat, armed, and while Calvin would have normally felt assured by the fact the man was carrying firepower in the form of a .357 magnum, for some reason the man's presence- and the gun's- did not comfort him.

Mentally he made a checklist of what he had done. Hobbes had been safely hid in the closet. His computer had been backed up online. The Transmogrifier Gun was in his possession. All the angles he could possibly control were under control.

So why the feeling of unease? Granted, coming under attack by a cult dedicated to child abuse was not conducive for anyone's mental state, but there was still something… off.

He got into the middle of the backseat, his mother on his left side, the bodyguard on his right, his father in the passenger's seat.

Clyde started the car and began pulling away from the house, oddly silent. It was understandable- police didn't often make small talk.

Calvin tried to ease the feeling of worry in his gut, shoving his hands in his pockets as the car started moving away from the household, telling himself that this too would pass- the people coming for him would be caught, there would be interrogations, there would be more arrests, and this nightmare would end.

It was by coincidence he looked out through the window and noticed they were going in the opposite direction of the police station… and the city.

Maybe,he rationalized, this was a ploy to throw off any pursuers. Get the target out of town, so tracking him down would be even harder if not impossible.

When, after an uncomfortable hour of driving, they pulled over in a gas station garage that had long since been worn down and abandoned, he rationalized, maybe they're going to contact their partners- see if the problem's solved, and we can all go home-

Then the man next to him put him in a headlock and jammed the magnum's barrel against his temple. His mother screamed, his father swore, and Clyde in response leveled a .40 automatic at his mother. "Any heroics, pop, and your wife and kid die."

Or maybe, he reconsidered, sitting there, head pulled against the barrel of a loaded gun, they had been fooled from the very beginning.

….

Veronica Miles did not consider herself a hero.

Survivor, maybe. A survivor of an abusive husband who promised love and support and gave out beatings with a fist and a belt- or whatever was handy.

A good parent, maybe. It had been fearing for the safety of her five year old daughter, Hope, that had given her the courage to call the police and testify against her husband, and strike out on her own.

A teacher, maybe. After her husband was locked away, she and Hope decided that they would raise awareness about spousal and child abuse. They didn't have a formal name until recently, one bestowed by several grateful people they'd helped to overcome similar problems. "Silence Breakers".

But a hero? No, she was not that vain. As her daughter put it, with surprising maturity when they had to cancel a day at the movies to go counsel a battered wife, "We can't let more people get hurt."

The first year after she had divorced her husband, Anthony Dehnes, life had been hard- she had worked several jobs to stay afloat. Sacrifices had to be made. They ate out maybe once a month. But the two had agreed from the first day neither of them had to go to bed in fear of Anthony's midnight assaults that the sacrifices were worth it.

They were just doing what should have been done already.

Now they were in an airport, preparing to go to a conference to speak on, specifically, child abuse. These things took time to plan for- time off from work, hotel rooms for her and Hope- fortunately donations helped to blunt the costs. That and the money from several of her books.

Initially she had questioned the morality of selling books talking about her experiences, whether or not her daughter would hate her, but Hope, again, had agreed and said that people needed to hear that abuse need not be suffered in silence- and that, frankly, they could use the extra income.

Her daughter tugged on her pants. "Wanna cookie?"

Like her mother, Hope had black hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and (although Veronica never boasted about it), a big heart. She had got Hope the cookies as a treat for her alone, but her daughter seemed to enjoy her treats more when she could share them- and besides, she could use a nibble to eat. "Thanks honey." She said, taking the treat.

Maybe they would remain as they were- just the two of them. Maybe if, she found someone right for her and her daughter, she would remarry.

Eventually they reached the gate for their flight, and, with half an hour before their departure remaining, the two had little to do but wait until boarding.

Eventually, Hope had to go to the restroom. The restroom being in plain view, Veronica thought little of letting her go by herself.

Hope was a big girl.

…

It used to be that going to the restroom for Hope was a challenge in and of itself- the equipment was, more often than not, made for grownups. Now, it was a triviality.

It was amazing how much stuff mom let her do now that they were living together, just the two of them! She could cook her own breakfast, make her own snacks, and even help with her mom's grocery shopping! Sure, it meant she had to be at daycare a lot more when mommy worked, and that sometimes they didn't do fun stuff so mommy could rest, but mom wasn't getting hurt and dad wasn't hitting her anymore, so life was good.

She had just finished washing her hands when she felt the hairs on her neck stand up.

"It must be nice, your mommy letting you lie to everyone."

Hope turned, to look up at…

This couldn't be right. Monsters didn't exist.

But here one was. In khaki pants, sneakers, and a garish red-pink "World's #1 Teacher" long sleeved shirt, the rotund, scar-faced woman with misshapen red curls of hair, bald in some spots, what hair remained was unkempt and unwashed, Hope did not know what to think except perhaps something from her nightmares had crawled out into this world.

The little girl found her voice. "Lying?" What was -her? It?- talking about?

In a flash, her right hand whipped her savagely across the face, and, in the moment she was stunned, the woman's left foot slammed into Hope's side and she gasped in pain as she slammed against the bathroom wall.

"You lied for your mommy about your daddy." She hissed. A kick to her stomach knocked away what air she had left.

"You lied about how children should handle discipline." The monster grabbed her hair, slammed her against the wall, and began to choke. Her eyes watered, her side on fire, her neck crushed and slashed by the monster's nails…

The monster was smiling…

"You're not going to lie anymore, little girl. But first, you need to accept the consequences for your actions."

Hope tried to break free, but the monster was too strong, slamming her face into the sink, turning on the water to it's hottest, grabbing a handful of soap... the monster tried to force the horrible tasting pink goop into her mouth, and she bit down, ignoring the taste- the monster recoiled.

And with all the breath she could muster as the monster crushed her against the sink, she screamed.

"**MOMMY!"**

...

Mary Gathwells knew that abducting a child that was as close to their mother as Hope was bordered on impossible.

She knew an airport only made the nigh impossible task more unreachable. More people. More witnesses. More security.

Luring the child away was a no go either. Hope was too well taught in the dangers of strangers bearing sweets, promises, or needing directions.

Yet Rod and Whip needed her to make an example of the bitch and her daughter-bitch who had dared to teach children that they did not deserve to be beaten, burned, starved, or used as a sex toy. She had at first despaired at the seemingly impossible task, but then her mind- her perfect, trained judge's mind-had found a weakness in her unholy enemies' defenses.

She did not have the authority or means to escort- by legal or illegal means- both mother and daughter back to Rod and Whip for punishment- but she knew those who did.

The only "downside" was that they would need an excuse to take the girl, the mother, and Gathwells herself all at once.

So Mary provided the excuse by venting her righteous indignation on the five year old. She had planned to do so much at first- Rod and Whip had trained her for this sort of scenario- inflicting the maximum amount of pain and humiliation in a short period of time- but her righteous punishment was cut short when the bitch-daughter called for help.

Mary Gathwells had a good idea of what would come next, so she continued to attack, turning the girl around and clawing, punching away at her face and chest until the mother- along with several other concerned patrons- forcefully pulled her off.

She was not surprised when everyone immediately took the girl's side- her bloodied, tear streaked, scrunched face buried in her mother's blouse, staining it with blood and tears immediately evoked sympathy, and the blood on Gathwell's hands did nothing for her own appealing to the crowd.

Nor was she surprised when several people, outraged, began to attack her. It did not matter- after multiple beatings in prison, very little genuinely hurt her anymore- though when a man of 200 plus pounds, enraged by what happened, hefted a chair and clubbed her-painfully and repeatedly- in the side of the head while several others held her down or kicked her in the groin and ribs, she began to worry for her safety.

Fortunately, the security officers arrived, and- after handcuffing Mary, strongly requested that mother and daughter follow them for a statement on the incident.

She expected the humiliation as people spat on her, clapped as the officers dragged her to her feet, dragged her away. Sacrifices had to be made- what was to come would more than make up for this minor embarrassment.

Almost immediately after being escorted to a small room, she was relieved of the handcuffs and given painkillers and alcohol.

The guard gave her a salute, a signal of his own allegiance to Rod and Whip. She returned the gesture, and imbibed both forms of medication.

"The two heretics will be ready for transport shortly." The guard spoke as Mary downed the last of her liquor. "But was it really necessary to draw that much attention?"

Gathwells gingerly touched the side of her head where she had been clubbed. It was already beginning to swell. "We had to show some guts- that we're not afraid to step in and administer discipline that's long been overdue. If we keep hiding in the shadows, who will take us seriously when we start getting more public?"

The guard shrugged. "As long as you can justify it to Sir Father."

"Already have. On that note, did he give me the approval?"

The guard nodded. "Yes. You are hereby cleared to oversee the breaking of Veronica and Hope Miles."

Mary's body ached with the bruises and lacerations dealt to her by the mob, but at the same time a sense of euphoria swept over her. Bit by bit, she would make both whores recant their lies and confess their sins against Rod and Whip's Holy and Perfect Judgement.

Her body ached for rest. She ignored it.

There were consequences to be meted out.

...

His parents kicked out of the car- literally- and he himself now being held at gunpoint as the car sped away to who-knew-where, another kid in Calvin's shoes may have panicked or pleaded.

They were on a long, unpopulated stretch of road. Heavy woods on either side of the road. Almost no one to signal to for help. Nowhere to run to if he managed to escape. He currently had a gun to his head. He was being taken to, in all likelihood, a secure location where he would be tortured to death for these sicko's warped amusement.

Worst of all, he found himself bored. It was time to harass his captors.

"So, what, is Viagra not doing it anymore for you two? You only get a boner from torturing kids? Is that how Rod and Whip got you, 'better male enhancement through torturing kids-'"

He was rewarded with a backhand. His nose bled and his jaw ached, and he slumped against the seat as if knocked unconscious. Predictable creatures, these big men.

"Dammit Gene, Sir Father wants to punish him personally-" the driver groused.

"He also said if a kid mouths off to pop 'em one." 'Gene' replied. "Don't worry kid. When we're done, you'll forget all about your nose." There was no kindness in the assurance; Calvin did not expect such, rather, there was a malevolent anticipation- apparently his torture and death were highly anticipated events for whoever these clowns worked for.

For a moment, Calvin felt flattered that an entire organization was willing to devote such resources and planning to his personal humiliation and suffering. Then the novelty of it all wore off as his nose began to throb.

His hand subtly brushed against his pants pocket containing the transmogrifier gun, pulling the trigger.

He knew nothing outlandish would work with the level of 'unbelief' these sadistic tyrants generated. That meant no bazookas out of nowhere. No sudden raptor attacks. These things simply could not happen in the minds of these adults, ruled by cold logic and sadistic glee- their imaginations had long since turned into little more than torture think-tanks.

However, a car malfunction was neither bizarre nor outlandish, and as he thought of just such an occurrence, the car obediently began to sputter and slow down, slowly coming to a stop as the two cursed their misfortune.

"I thought you said you checked the car-" Gene began.

"I DID!" Clyde retorted, banging on the steering wheel in frustration. Calvin repressed a smile as he squeezed the trigger again.

"…the friggin' gas pedal is stuck." Clyde kicked the offending pedal repeatedly. Gene groaned.

"Goddammit, fix it quick. I'll watch the kid."

The driver, after a muffled curse, obligingly got out and opened up the hood, beginning what appeared to be a cursory inspection of the vehicle.

Calvin then found this moment in time to be appropriate to use the transmogrifier gun to convince reality that the car was suddenly good as new, save for the stuck gas pedal. This combined with the driver's unfortunate positioning had him scrambling to get out of the way of the now rapidly accelerating vehicle. Clyde took a glancing blow to his side as the car accelerated, he and Gene sharing a confused look through the window as the car rapidly approached- then surpassed- the generous 70 mph speed limit.

To his credit, Gene's reaction speed was top-notch, hurling himself into the driver's seat, desperately steering the car away from a road sign even as the car accelerated faster and faster. Calvin could hear him stomping on the brakes, then pulling the emergency brake, the frantic, murmured cursing grew louder as his attempts to regain control failed.

It was then that Calvin noticed that Gene had forgotten, in his haste, to take his gun with him.

As the car accelerated and Gene's attempts to slow the car down grew more frantic- hysteria rising in his voice as even removing the keys didn't work- Calvin contemplated the morality of shooting a man in the back of the head. The current kidnapping attempt aside, generally executing someone from behind was frowned upon in most societies he'd learned about.

Another thing for the philosophers to debate.

...

The gunshot motivated Clyde to run faster.

It was bad enough the car was unreliable and nearly killed him. If Gene had been a dumbass and killed the kid before they got back to HQ, then death would be preferable to what Sir Father would do to them as an example to others.

This was a priority one mission- a mission handed down by Sir Father himself. Screwing up was not an option. Being late was not an option. Nothing but a perfect, no contest, 100% perfect completion of the mission at hand was in any way a possibility that he nor anyone at Rod and Whip were willing to entertain.

So it stands to reason that when Clyde finally caught up to the slowing vehicle, out of breath and wheezing, only to find his partner sporting a debilitating new hole in the back of his head, Clyde's heart sank. He looked in the back seat, confirming what he already knew- the kid was gone.

Clyde's mind tried to function, tried to sort out what'd he'd seen- the car had gotten pretty far away, but he was certain the doors weren't opened. That meant no one got out of the car. The seats were far too narrow to hide underneath, which left only the impossibility that the kid had just plain vanished…

A bad dream. That was it. This was all a bad dream. He was probably dozing off in his quarters, and soon he'd wake up and it'd be time to go get this kid, and it'd be a simple operation as it had always been…

The sudden crack of thunder and the sharp, piercing pain that exploded in his knee dispelled the notion that the experience was a dream, along with his balance. Clyde toppled to the ground, screaming in pain, clutching his damaged knee.

Another gunshot- searing pain in his back replaced the agony in his legs. He tried to stand on his one good leg, only to find, to his horror, he couldn't feel anything below his waist… the realization hit him- he'd been hit in the spine. Crippled. A sitting duck.

Calvin walked in front of him, kneeling down to look at him, the smoking magnum still in the boy's hand. He had a cool look to his face, as if he were bored with the situation at hand. His hands shook a little- the boy must not have been used to killing.

"It's not nice, is it?" the boy spoke finally. "Someone hurting you, just because they can." There was a calmness in his voice that shouldn't have been there, yet it held a quiet anger.

Clyde gritted his teeth against the pain, looked into his hated enemy's eyes, and found the courage to speak. "You blasphemed against Rod and Whip- Sir Father's- Holy and Perfect Judgment, you little brat, you deserve whatever the hell you get…"

"Holy and perfect judgment? Sir Father? You people really are insane." The boy looked up and down the road. No cars came. No savior for the kidnapper. "Anyway, I'd like to gloat, but I'm in a bit of a hurry. So you're going to tell this… Sir Pops?"

"Sir **Father, **you arrogant little sh-"

"Right, him- anyway, I want to give him my regards."

Clyde spat at the boy, the phlegm falling short of it's target. Calvin, in response, painfully jammed the magnum's barrel against Clyde's right cheek- the barrel was still warm.

"You're going to give him a message. You're going to contact him- I know you have ways of doing that."

Clyde did not find his voice strong enough to argue.

"You're going to tell him that if he messes with me, with my family, or with any more kids and I find out about it, I'll do to him what I did to your partner." Calvin then, very calmly, began to disassemble the gun- it wasn't the quickest or most proficient stripping of a weapon, but soon enough, he had rendered the weapon unusable, pocketing the remaining bullets and a few essential parts.

Clyde reached into his pocket, getting his cell phone- the boy tensed until he realized what the object was, then relaxed, shrugged, and started walking towards the woods.

"You're dead," Clyde finally managed to speak. "you're dead, kid! I'll have sixty agents here in no time flat, and when they find your sorry ass-"

The boy didn't even reply. Eventually, the sound of his footsteps crunching leaves underneath faded away entirely.

Clyde dialed a number on his cell, his thumb hovering over the call button. Finally, as the pain in his back grew to the point he could no longer stand it, he gave in and called the number reserved for emergency aid.

Whatever Rod and Whip would do to him, it couldn't be worse than what he felt right now.

...

Calvin emptied his stomach once he was out of earshot of the crippled agent, slumping against a tree, a few tears trickling down his face. He'd killed a man. Jesus Christ. Of all the things he wanted to do in life, murder wasn't one of them. He allowed himself a minute or so of sobbing, head buried between his knees, his raging at the lunacy of the past few days manifesting itself in tears and sobs, angry at his parents being hurt, angry at the sheer stupidity of this world, angry at himself for having no better ideas to get free other than to kill someone and cripple another.

Finally, when he could breathe normally, he turned his thoughts to logic. He was alone in God-knows-where-ville, in an unfamiliar forest, and soon that man **would** call for help, and they would be combing this area for him.

He sighed, banging the back of his head lightly against the tree. There was no two ways about it, he was going to have to use the Transmogrifier Pistol again.

When he had discovered that its power, however limited by the ambient 'belief' of onlookers, was genuine and not merely a product of his imagination, he had sworn never to misuse it. Not for grades. Not for personal profit. Certainly not for kicks.

Saving his own skin, however… that was a different matter.

He pressed the gun against his temple, the similarity of one about to commit suicide not lost at all on him, and envisioned himself as a light particle.

Now, this trick- one of Calvin's emergency 'get the hell away' tactics- was difficult on an utmost scale with anyone even in the vicinity, despite whether or not they were looking at him, because it was an accepted fact that humans simply could not vanish into thin air. But the two who were around- one dead, one nearly unconscious from agony- were in no shape to counter Calvin's argument to reality that his physical form could suddenly become as light and intangible as a ray from the sun.

But then it struck Calvin that these people couldn't have just be devoted to his torture and demise; no, if the many articles he'd seen were to be believed, there were hundred, thousands of kids that were suffering at the hands of these sadists. Even assuming the police could pinpoint a location, by the time they'd get there they'd likely kill the kids or move them somewhere else.

Someone had to go deal with them, now. And after all the hell they'd put him through, wasn't it time he returned the favor?

The light particle idea seemed so bland now, and as he squeezed the trigger, he envisioned something else…

When, about an hour later, twelve men- a pithy one fifth of what had been promised- and a helicopter combed the woods for a sign of life, they only had his vomit to show for their efforts.

No one noticed the bug that flew in one of the cars.

…..

Jason had barricaded himself in his room, again, with more traps, more improvised weapons, a stockpile of water and food, a makeshift toilet that ejected the waste from his window, and his computer displaying multiple views of the perimeter of their house.

For the first time in his life, Jason was truly and undeniably scared. With a genius level IQ, it did not take him long to understand that the promises made by confident officers and his parents (looking like they had taken on twenty more years) of safety were hollow comforts, that anyone who was willing to use these tactics and weapons was a force to be reckoned with, and that he, with all his traps, with all his cunning, even if he just threw morality to the wind and killed everything they threw at him like he was mowing down mooks in a game…

….wouldn't survive.

Oh, sure, there would be casualties, he'd see to it that his capture would cost the enemy dearly. But he couldn't guarantee his family's safety or security in all the madness.

Run away, and they'd hunt him down, all he'd do is give the sick fucks a bit of entertainment.

Hide here? They'd tear the house down to get to him.

One dark corner of his mind thought of turning himself into a bomb- naturally, he wouldn't survive, but the idea of his kidnappers going through a terrible gauntlet of traps only to get blown up by their target exploding brought a grim smile to his face…

…for about five seconds.

And then he realized that being the best scenario, that he'd never get to play OR make his own games, never get to go to a college and really show people what he could do, never plot with Marcus again, never drink soda until he passed out again. His entire childhood- his entire **life** was being viciously stripped away for the sake of simple, unquenchable sadism, and he felt nauseated at the injustice of it all.

He was going to die a statistic.

A knock on the door prompted him to grab one of several acid super soakers, ready to go down fighting…

"Jason, the police are here."

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, switched off a plethora of traps, opened his door.

Several police officers greeted him.

"We're going to take you into protective custody, son."

Protective. Good. Very good. No more sleepless nights. No more panicking at every creak or shift in the house. Two nights with barely a solid hour of sleep had taken their toll, and the empty coke cans strewn on his desk attested to the severity of his artificially induced insomnia.

So he numbly packed some essentially, hugged his mother, and hurried into the black police van that waited outside-

A kick to his back sent him sprawling as he got inside. Before he hit the floor, his mind, though sleep-deprived, registered the idea that this was a trap. If any doubt remained, the following blows confirmed his theory.

He had hoped that they would at least beat him unconscious. Alas, they showed no such mercy.

The drive to God-knows-where was a very long one.

...

Curtis had told a tearful Chutney that things had gone to hell before barricading himself in a cheap hotel room on the outskirts of town, trying to figure out what to do next. Where would he go? His relatives thought he was a druggie gangbanging hoodlum who brought guns to school on a daily basis, sexually harassed anything with a double digit age, and treated the offering plate at church like his own piggy bank, all notions courtesy of his parent's years-long grudge against him. Gunther couldn't afford to help him much.

He had spent most of the day trying to figure out what he could do- joining the army sounded viable, more so than anything else- when his phone rang.

He picked it up as he reviewed his notes. "Gunther?"

"No," said a voice, male, stern. It took Curtis several minutes to remember. "We spoke when you called from the DMV. What did I tell, Curtis? "Stay where you are, and this will go a lot easier." Why can't you kids follow directions?"

"I'm supposed to come with you when I don't know jack shit about who you are or what you want? Screw that."

"You know what? That attitude's fine by me. Just keep doing the whole 'waaaaah I don't deserve this' routine. I've dealt with plenty of kids like you before."

'Dealt with' sounded suspiciously malevolent, and Curtis felt a horrible mixture of rage and fear as he wondered silently just how many other teens and children he had done this to.

"But maybe you just don't care about yourself, is that it? No self-respect? I can't say I blame you- a shitty brother, a lousy failure of a son, what's to respect?"

There was a muffled scream, the sounds of struggling, the sound of someone being slapped, muffled sobs.

He knew that voice. But they couldn't go so far, they **wouldn't**-

"Stupid bitch… well, I was going to make this a surprise for the end of the conversation, but maybe if you don't care about yourself, you'll care about someone else- lose the gag-"

Even before the screams- panicked pleas for him not to come, to stay away, screaming for him to run even as the sound of blows broke the sobs and cries- he knew who it was.

Chutney.

They had gone after Chutney.

He had screamed her name without realizing it, listening for her to say something else. There was an awful, ungodly silence for a minute. Two minutes.

"You're awful quiet over there, Curtis, so maybe it's time to shut up and listen. There's going to be some men coming to your hotel room in ten minutes. If you don't want me to take a power drill to your girlfriend's eyes, you will go peacefully and quietly, understand?"

Curtis was silent.

"**DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. SHITHEAD?" **the man roared.

"Yes." Curtis choked out.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir." He said through gritted teeth.

"There now, that wasn't so hard, was it, Shithead?" the man's voice held a cruel tone of satisfaction to it. "They'll be there shortly. Don't bother packing anything. Oh, and don't bother calling the cops or anyone for that matter. We'll know, and it won't help. Ciao." There was a click, and the line went dead.

The ten minutes might have well been ten years. Curtis briefly considered suicide, but then he couldn't do anything about Chutney. How had they even known about her?

His parents didn't know, Chutney's parents agreed not to speak to them, and he-

Realization hit him even as he heard cars pull into the motel parking lot. There was only one person who knew and was perfectly willing to put her in harm's way just to hurt him some more…

Even as he opened the door, was dragged painfully to one of the cars, he looked around… and saw his confirmation of what he already knew.

There, standing beside the man he assumed to have been the one to have issued the threats, was Barry, his grin radiating pure, unadulterated malevolent mirth.

…

Faith had never understood how someone could get addicted to painkillers until now.

After all the stitching, setting of bones, disinfecting, and medical attention she needed, that little tube sticking into her arm left her comfortably numb to her battered bodies' injuries.

For the first time in four years, Faith was not in pain.

Her aunt and uncle were on their way to the hospital even now. She got to choose her own dinner. She didn't have to leave the door open when she used the bathroom under the pretense she was a drug addled freak.

She had heard the news. Her parents had suddenly up and vanished. The sheer lack of anything but relief filling her did not come as a surprise

Her school, a strict, fundamentalist, Christian high school with an extended school year and no tolerance for people with her reputation, had been called, and the revelation that her teachers, rendered unsympathetic to her plight so many times by falsehoods about her getting into fights and orgies, now were considering just giving her A's out of a mixture of apology and sympathy for the hell she'd been through. That had been surprising, she'd admit- she had expected them to rally against her, demanding she repent now, even as she lay in bed bandaged.

Her father had, so very often, preached that when bad things happened to someone, it was God allowing it, to teach that person a lesson in life. (He had conveniently left unmentioned, however, the point behind God supposedly allowing an innocent to be killed) If that was the truth, then what was the point of everything that happened to her?

She had meditated on this for about an hour, arriving at the conclusion that the lesson, if there was indeed one, was that not everyone who claimed to preach the word of God was to be trusted. Nor were the people who would follow such a person.

To that end she had explained to the officers who had driven her to the hospital that the children of her church were in danger too, their parents taught to punish without cause, lest they become like her- or, at least, what Faith's parents claimed she was. If nothing else, maybe she could prevent at least a few from suffering as long as she did…

A knock on her door, the officer she had met, Garret, walked in. "How're you doing?"

"Better." She answered honestly. It was then she noticed the grim look on the cop's face. "What's wrong?"

"We visited the church where your dad preaches, found a list of the parishioners, and visited some of their homes…"

"If they're telling you that their kids are lying or that I'm making this sort of stuff up, I'm not! You must have found some of his sermons, he preaches that they should beat their kids every day whether or not they-"

"No, we do believe you," He interrupted. "but when we visited these homes, they'd been evacuated. No one home, lot of stuff taken in a hurry."

Faith lay there for a few moments as the information sunk in. It didn't take a phenomenal amount of mental gymnastics to figure out what had happened. Once she had ran away, her parents had read the note, logically assumed she was going to the authorities, panicked, and probably issued an emergency gathering of the church warning them how the "armies of the beast" were going to arrest them and take away their children.

Guilt flooded her, and she felt sick, tears welling up in her eyes.

In her escape from her own personal hell, had she condemned so many more children to suffer like her?


	6. Cutting Losses

Chapter 6: Cutting Losses

…..

Sometimes, there is nothing to be gained from a horrible experience. There is no mystical lesson, no great secret that makes the pain and loss all worth it.

Sometimes, all there is to be learned is that life can be savagely, bitterly unfair.

…..

"_His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will __clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire. For those of you who have never bothered to pick up your bibles- your one ticket out of the hell you're descending into, day by day with your drugs, your witchcraft, your orgies, and your __**rebellion**__, that was Matthew 3:12."_

"_So, yes, God offers redemption. But there will come a time, which is fast approaching, when he will separate the good from the wicked, and burn the wicked with hellfire, purging them from his kingdom! Maybe, just maybe, there's hope for… God help me, I don't know. Five? Ten of you, tops? Maybe God can see something I can't- you ALL look like chaff to me, and it was my recommendation, after having my daughter backstab me so viciously, that Sir Father, God's holy knight in the war against disobedience, simply burn all of you, so that the children already here, who MIGHT have a shot at redemption, wouldn't be tainted by you, you, the rebellious children, who spurned the message of God to the point that this became necessary!"_

"_But he said 'No, Wellfields. We will punish them, and punish them harsher than ever before, but the repentant will be spared.' That's God's love there- refusing to let one grain of wheat be burned up with the chaff."_

"_Oh, right, sorry. Love. You wouldn't understand that term, would you? Maybe it's easier to compare love to lust, something you all understand intimately. Love is caring about someone as a person, regardless of how much money they spend on you or how good they are in bed. Love is trying to help someone even when your gut instinct says they're beyond all hope."_

"_Maybe… maybe I'm all out of love, honestly. I poured all my love into Faith, and where did it get me? I was driven from my hometown by the enforcers of her head pimp, Satan himself. So yeah, I'm human. Maybe with no opportunities to backstab, with no easing up whatsoever, a few of you can be redeemed, but right now, I can't feel it."_

"_I really do hope you prove me wrong."_

-Speech given by Matthew Wellfields to the children of his congregation at Rod and Whip's "Disciplinary Center".

…..

Sir Father watched from behind a two-way mirror as Wellfields made his speech.

He had expected just another lunatic, another bible-thumper who didn't really understand the concepts of perpetual punishment, that the only contribution he or his congregation would make would be some extra labor and the 'training dummies' they had brought in.

Instead, he'd found someone who was willing to sacrifice his own daughter- innocent of the deeds he'd accused her of, for the sheer purpose of encouraging perpetual punishment of more 'innocent children' as a pre-emptive measure. Hell, the man had managed to convince his congregation to give up their jobs, homes, and luxuries, all for the sake of condemning their own children to what most countries would consider 'torture'.

And even now he hammered at the last vestiges of the children's confidence and hopes, telling them that they deserved this, and only through unquestioning acceptance of the punishment to come could they ever be saved, making his speech with such a passion and fury that several times, Sir Father forgot he was dealing with a consummate liar, the stereotypical false prophet of yore.

Maybe Wellfields channeled his own guilt into his sermons. Maybe he was just a world-class bullshitter. Whatever the source of his power, he got the job done.

Goabes stood at his side, awed. "So, what'd I tell you, sir?"

Sir Father said nothing, just watched as the now demoralized teens, adolescents, and children were herded off with stun-guns and blows.

It had been a day of successes. First, the capture of Veronica Miles, one of his most hated naysayers, and her child. Then, the first real signs of a neoidentifiable child- Barry Wilkins, willing to sell out his own brother and his girlfriend, not out of a desire for reward, but a desire to punish his brother. Granted, it might be that Barry was just a sadist- but Rod and Whip needed sadists. And his parents were already doing perpetual punishment of their own; they would be easily trainable.

That left just one issue, and that was Calvin Halgins.

Ordinarily, a single child was beneath his notice. But his child had broken free, twice now, retaining confidence each time and bragging about his escapes on his blog.

He had sent two of his best to remedy that.

…..

Veronica Miles remembered being offered a cup of coffee as the officer spoke to her about filing charges against the psychotic woman who assaulted her daughter, a brief feeling of dizziness, and nothing more.

When she awoke, handcuffed and shackled in a pitch-black cell, she initially wondered if she had somehow made the officer feel threatened, and he had tazed her, arrested her. On the cold stone floor, with no window to look out of, not even a barred window on the door- she was, for all she knew, alone and forgotten.

Then she heard screams.

Children's screams. The sounds of something striking flesh. Pleas for mercy in young voices. Sobs and blows. Angry, harsh barking and sadistic laughter.

A child's pleadings grew louder and closer, and suddenly she knew- a boy, maybe eight years old, was being dragged towards her cell. Laughter, horrible, adult laughter- then snapping noises. Screams that pierced her hands as she clamped them over her ears to block them out, thuds reverberating through the floor and the walls. Crunching noises…

They were stomping on a little boy.

The boy's screams turned to coughs and gasps. Then, aside from a few more sickeningly wet thumps, there was silence.

"Don't make them like they used to, do they?" asked a male voice.

Laughter.

They were laughing about killing a little boy.

Veronica curled up in a horror, too terrified, too nauseous to cry, to do anything but hug her knees.

The best case scenario, she realized, was that she died and went to hell. That her beautiful baby girl was still on earth, and she was in her own tailor-made hell.

She couldn't bear the idea of this all being real and on earth.

…..

Barry held the device in his hands, letting himself get used to the weight of it. Heavy. Definitely would break bone if he swung it. He flicked his eyes from the baton-like weapon to the victim before him- a girl, black hair, wounds all over her… Four? Five? He didn't know the exact age, the name, or what crimes these people thought the girl committed that warranted what would happen next.

And, unsurprisingly, Barry found himself not caring at all.

The man named Harry had explained the situation to Barry in unflinching detail after he had been separated from his parents- and more regretfully, his brother's beating. Rod and Whip didn't trust children- case in point: his brother, who Barry wholly agreed deserved to have anything wet beaten out of him, because, in Barry's mind, the asshole deserved to be beaten to a pulp for breathing oxygen that other people could use. To prove that Barry himself was not of the category Rod and Whip despised, he had to administer punishment without questioning why.

The girl on the ground- mouth stitched shut, hands and feet bound with tape, he didn't know, but not knowing who she was or what she'd done, Barry found, gave him very little pause or compassion.

Barry had no friends.

For all his feints and tricks, the techniques that kept his mother and father blind to his deeds for so long did not work on the teachers or the students he was made to attend school with. One betrayal here, a few mean-spirited pranks and frame-jobs there, and suddenly Barry found himself the hated one who was barely tolerated by teachers, openly hated by his peers.

"I try to climb but they always pull me down with them." He muttered. He smacked the rod against his palm slightly, looking at the bound girl with disgust.

A woman, fat, her face distorted as if someone- some_thing_?- had tried to tear it off several times, sporting new bandages, looked to him and then Harry in impatience.

"He's not going to do it." She growled. "I told you, these shits, they talk about obedience, and…"

Barry brought the baton down in a two handed stroke on the girl's left knee. The reflexive attempt to scream ripped at one of the stitches, and the woman's criticism fell silent, her left eyebrow raised.

"Trying to figure out where to start." Barry explained, and Harry, the woman, and two other adults- armed with rifles bigger than himself- gave 'ahs' of comprehension.

Barry knew, in his heart, that it wouldn't matter if he freed the girl, somehow miraculously fought off the guards, and helped the kid escape. The girl would hear about him. How he tried to get ahead. And she'd join everyone else in dragging him down.

It wouldn't matter how much charity he did, how many people he helped. These assholes, so much like his brother, acted with so much indignation when people like himself got tired with waiting for opportunity to knock.

There was only room for so many at the top. Therefore it was only reasonable that to climb up, one had to knock others down, and ensure they stayed down so that they would not challenge him when he reached the peak.

The girl before him didn't seem to grasp this truism, rolling in pain, looking at Barry with half-accusation, half-pleading eyes.

Even with her lips stitched shut, the girl seemed to want to scream "why?"

Barry looked up. "How do you turn this thing on?"

The torn-face woman beamed. "Press the button on the base twice. That puts it in 'subdue' mode. Don't press it more than twice, or the shock will kill her too quick." The instructions reminded him of the saccharine tone his teacher's used to describe how to solve simple addition problems.

Barry did as told, and the baton's striking head crackled with electricity. The girl now looked panicked as Barry advanced.

Harry excused himself. "He's got it under control, then. I'll be back, just need to see how the… less obedient son and his bitch are doing."

Barry felt himself smile at the vote of confidence, and decided to answer the question the girl couldn't ask.

"Because I can." He said simply as he raised the electrified weapon.

…

After spending several minutes calming himself down, Jason made an assessment of his current situation.

Chained to the wall of a dimly lit concrete room, featureless save for one light bulb and , his right arm on fire from being dislocated, gashes and bruises all over, glasses broken, circumstances could only get worse if he stayed. As much as the three hours long drive, replete with several grown men using police batons to beat him, had left him desiring unconsciousness, the experience had left him, surprisingly, less broken in spirits and more filled with an intense desire to see each and every one of the persons responsible for his anguish dead.

From outside, wails of children. Some his age, some younger. It took less than a second to piece together that he was not the only one being singled out for torture, and despite his own agony his stomach churned with a vicious hate- death was too good for whatever bastards were behind this hell, but he would see to it that at least a few died horrible, horrible deaths.

His body readily reminded him he was not in any shape to go on such a rampage.

His mind, however, noted, that the captors had been called away as they had been clamping the cuffs on his wrists, they had not tightened them quite enough.

Staying in this position was suicide. Leaving probably was too, but maybe he could mess with whatever plan they had.

Removing the left cuff was easy enough. The right however, was a long and arduous task. Every twitch brought fresh agonies, and when he finally pulled the limp limb free, his face was soaked with tears from the pain of the endeavor.

Now came the task of rotating it back into its socket. He balled up his blood soaked shirt, jammed it into his mouth, and set to work.

Several times he screamed, his cries muffled by the self made gag, and twice he felt his vision blur, a black morass at the edge of his vision threatening to consume all conscious thought, but through the haze of pain, he rotated the limb back in place, slamming his shoulder into the wall-

There was a pop, white hot pain drove him to his knees, his throat, thankfully raw, could not produce more than a rasp…

Then, mercifully, miraculously, the pained dulled to a persistent ache. It spoke of damage, perhaps permanent, but it was not intolerable.

Footsteps got his attention, and he made a split second analysis, returning to the manacle, sliding his wrist through, pretending to be bordering on unconsciousness, head slacked forward…

Several moments later, his cell door flew open.

From the top of his eye, he saw his captor- military fatigues. Shaved head. Looked like he had a brick shoved deep into his rectum, and was holding what appeared to be a submachine gun.

Quick mental calculations gave him a theoretical idea of how dire the situation was. The man likely had a radio, so even if Jason did manage to run out of the room and evade gunfire, he'd face more similarly armed persons. If he waited, the man was likely to escort him to further torture or flat out kill him.

The man pointed the gun barrel an inch, at best, away from his forehead. "Wake up, you four-eyed piece of-"

Jason slipped his hands free.

Used the shackles as gymnast rings to lift himself up, ignoring the staggering pain in his arm and the fact he didn't think the plan would work…

Kicked the gun, and, as he dropped, grabbed at it-

For a brief second, he stood there, gun leveled at the bald man, face now bearing something more befitting a deer caught in the proverbial head lights-

Jason fired one shot, and the man's head jerked back before slumping to the ground.

The radio on his belt crackled to life. "Dammit Matthew, you're not supposed to kill him before we begin ransoming!"

Jason searched the cooling corpse for additional ammo, finding two magazines, cramming them into his pockets. The realization that this was harder than all his video games made it look gave him a brief moment of amusement despite his dire predicament…

"Matthew, come in! Is the prisoner still alive?"

Jason had exited the door as the radio voice grew more and more panicked.

…..

"_Despite the most devoted agent's cautions, precise reactions, and torture techniques, prisoners making escape attempts will be an unfortunate reality for the foreseeable future until we can vastly accelerate the will-breaking process. To this end, any suspicion of an escape attempt in progress or being planned is to be treated with the utmost severity. Disciplinary actions for being overly cautious against a perceived escape attempt and shooting a prisoner will be far more lenient than allowing an escape plan to come to fruition."_

"_In the event one perceives, hears of, or witnesses in progress an escape attempt, notify security and attempt to terminate the escape. If killing is necessary then do so, but, if possible, Rod and Whip prefers such rebellious guests be captured alive to be made examples to the others."_

"_A successful escape breeds hope among the children inside and those outside. Hope breeds more escape attempts. Do whatever it takes to quash any attempts at escape."_

Rod and Whip Instruction Manual, "Worst Case Scenario survival guide"

…..

The complex Calvin arrived at was not unlike some maximum security prison in the middle of the wilderness. They had driven past several checkpoints with ten foot high barbed wife fences and armed guards, guard towers, and patrol vehicles that looked to be like golf carts refitted with mounted machine guns. The main building, a massive concrete monstrosity, was without adornments, markings, or, he noticed after a brief glance, many windows. Only certain portions had any visible means of letting in sunlight whatsoever, others were completely closed off.

Psychological torture.

The car pulled into a massive garage after yet another security checkpoint, all four agents exited the car, as did Calvin.

Calvin's exit, however, given his fly form, was much less obvious.

Flying was an exhausting ordeal, but he managed to land on one of the agent's shirts and crawl under the collar as they began their march inside. Judging by the groans and cries of pain, the man named Clyde whom Calvin had crippled was being carried in as well.

Calvin's hitchhiked ride stopped with a jerk. Another jerk.

A deafening "AT EASE." Calvin put together what was happening- the agents had stopped, saluted someone. Sir Father, maybe?

Calvin needed some time to adjust himself so he could hear without being deafened- he didn't wholly understand how flies could hear, or if his own current physiology was akin to a real flies, but eventually, he found a positioning of his forelegs just so to dampen the deafening indoor voices.

"-Agent Gene is dead. Calvin Halgins escaped into the woods-"

"Goddammit-" was that the superior, now, speaking?- "how the hell does one kid overpower two men- what the hell was retrieval doing-"

"…combed the forest. We found some vomit, no other traces of him-" another agent explained, but he was cut off-

"Let me get this straight." The superior grunted. "What we're dealing with is a thirteen year old blogger who throws up when he kills someone, no formal combat training, no history of violent behavior, and you're telling me a home retrieval op, police switch op, and prisoner retrieval all failed? For fuck's sake, he! Is! One! Kid!" there was banging on something- a wall?

"We will continue searching-"

"You're damn right you will. Sir Father wanted him to make a televised recantation today. Find him in 24 hours and MAYBE you'll get off with just demotion."

So that wasn't Sir Father talking. That at least he knew. Why the hell, though, would someone want him to make a public apology for an obscure blog posting? Calvin's post had gotten quite a few hits, sure, but it wasn't a national sensation…

…or maybe the point was that he had evaded the standard method of capture and talked about it, and this was nothing more than an overreaction.

More chillingly, Calvin pondered, the series of events: home invasion, sleeper agents in the police, and kidnapping and being forced to make a public recantation among God-knew-what-else could very well be standard procedure.

His 'ride' spoke. "Clyde is alive, sir. He says Calvin wanted him to relay a message to Sir Father-"

"What message?" There was a tone of impatience.

"He said," and there was a very distinct air of disbelief from his ride- "that if Sir Father messes with him, his family, or any more kids, he'd kill him."

There was a snort. "Cocky son of a bitch. FIND. HIM. You two. Get Clyde to medical. Tell them to spare the anesthetic, we don't waste that on failures-"

Calvin flew out from his host's collar and into a nearby bathroom, the surrounding area, as best he could tell, some sort of massive garage for the cars these people used. The method now was simple, at least in his mind- Sir Father's authority appeared to be absolute. Ergo, all he needed was to look like Sir Father, and he'd be able to cause, at the very least, enough havoc to start releasing prisoners.

It suddenly struck Calvin how tired he was. Nerves. That was all. Nerves, and the ordeal of what had happened all these last few days. No time for rest, he had a job to do.

The Transmogrifier Gun, now conveniently fly-friendly, would help him. So it was more uses of it than he liked in a month or year. This was a special case. He would let the historians berate him and his actions, should they ever come to light, right now he had kids to save.

But even as he used the gun to revert to his normal form inside a bathroom stall, Calvin felt a twinge in his gut, a horrible feeling something was terribly wrong…

_Of course something's terribly wrong. These people are torturing kids, and I'm going to stop it._

Damn fatigue and impossible odds. Damn reason and the fact he had no idea of the layout of the building, or where the kids were, or how many people were in here, or how well armed they were, or…

Calvin suddenly decided to stop thinking. It was making the twinge worse.

He pressed the barrel to his head. _I am Sir Father._

Click.

Nothing.

For a moment panic set in, until Calvin realized, stifling a nervous laugh, that of course, that wouldn't work- he didn't KNOW what Sir Father looked like.

_Okay, okay, fine. I am dressed like one of those agents. Jacket, gun and holster, and adult._

Click. Nothing. The twinge hurt.

Maybe he needed to get a better look at them- back to fly form-

Click. Nothing. The twinge made him stagger now.

In a horrifying moment of despair as he tried to decipher why, of all the possible times, the Transmogrifier failed him now, several reasons crept into his mind. One was the possibility that the iron-clad mentality of these torture-addict adults was such that it nullified the gun's power. He dismissed that, the gun worked fine when he was escorted by two phony cops. The second, he was too stressed, and needed clarity. Bullshit, the gun worked even when he was in a state of panic, if a bit haphazardly.

Finally, in a moment of crystal-like clarity, he understood. The gun ran on some sort of ammo. The ammo came from Calvin. And whatever that ammo was, he was out. The twinge in his stomach was just like an empty gun clicking helplessly.

Amidst the panic was a ray of hope. He recalled he hadn't eaten in a long time, and he **was **thirsty. Maybe that's all he needed- some food and caffeine. Even sadists needed to eat.

But he didn't know where food would be. Or where the kids locked in here were. He had assumed, stupidly, in retrospect, that the gun would solve everything for him- he would break in, break out the kids, and the gun would do the grunt work with nothing needed in return. Hadn't it been draining, in the past, when he had used it repeatedly?

As he looked for a way out of the situation, he found only more and more obstacles. If he left the restroom back into the garage, he'd be found out instantly. Staying in the restroom would have him found out eventually.

Even if he DID manage to make it to some food, he wasn't sure it would be enough to power the gun- it was just a hunch.

For a moment, Calvin felt like praying to whatever God was listening for a miracle, then, bitterly, he realized he'd been given a miracle already- a gun that shaped the world around him as he saw fit. Now that miracle was squandered, the result of a hasty decision to make an assault on this base he knew nothing about on his own.

…

Some part of Curtis, prior to this point, had wanted reconciliation with his family.

That eventually, wounds could begin to heal.

But when he was brought to this hell, this prison-slash-torture factory, and his own mother began kicking Chutney in the stomach simply because the man had suggested it would teach her a lesson, after his father ripping the hat he gave him at birth up in front of him and decking him until he spat two teeth and a mouthful of blood, the part of him that wanted reconciliation was dead.

His father slammed a fist into his chest, and he coughed, spitting blood. Tied to a chair, he could do nothing to roll with the blow.

His father's words were hazy, hard to make out. Plenty of swearing. Plenty of blaming him for making him resort to this. In the brief respite between pummeling, Curtis found it ironic that his father seemed to expect repeatedly punching him in the face to make him pay attention.

His mother was more silent, stomping and kicking on Chutney, who had asked her repeatedly to stop- Diane put an end to her talking with a strip of duct tape. Over and over, she slammed her foot into Chutney's stomach, knocking her over, still bound to a chair herself, continuing to savagely stomp on her neck and ribs-

She was smiling.

The woman Curtis once thought capable of no evil was _smiling_as she kicked his lover to death.

A hard right hook across his jaw exploded his world into a fireworks display made of pain, and he saw his father's snarling face. The man was psychotic. Best case scenario, these people had given his parents some sort of drugs, had messed with their minds somehow…

More likely, they'd both just snapped.

Resting against the wall of the cell was the man whom Curtis recognized by voice- his father, during the trip here, had called him Harry- he smiled and watched as if taking in some sort of classic play.

Another punch.

"Why are you making me do this?" Greg asked, backhanding Curtis. "Do you think we enjoy this? Having to break you down so you'll obey for once? Do you think we like hurting you?"

Curtis glared at him, one eye swelling, and gave an honest answer. "Yes."

Harry shifted. "Maybe it's time to give him an idea of just how much his smart mouth is going to cost him." He drew a pistol from the inside of his jacket, a .40 automatic, handing it to Diane.

Diane looked horrified. "But you said-"

"No, no, not on him, on **her.**" He jerked his head towards Chutney, who looked at the weapon with terror, suddenly trying desperately to get free despite her injuries.

Diane hesitated, looked to Greg, then to Harry.

"It's the only way he'll learn. He doesn't care what his disobedience costs him. That's apparent. But maybe, just maybe, having his fuck-ups cost him his masturbation alternative will get the point across." Harry cooed with all the sincerity of a therapist.

Diane slowly took the pistol, cocked it, leveled it at Chutney.

"Don't." Curtis pleaded. "Don't do this."

Diane looked at Curtis, eyes that once held compassion (or something resembling it) now filled with something cold and alien. "You brought this on yourself, and her. Don't act like you don't deserve this." She looked up at Greg. "Make sure he watches."

Greg obligingly grabbed Curtis' head, wrenched it towards the scene, and pulled back on his right eye, making sure he would have to watch-

Harry smiled…

And then as if some deity had said "Fuck this shit", a boy with a SMG burst into the room, blinked, and fired on Diane, catching her in the shoulder…

She screamed, fell, dropped the gun. Harry and Greg both made a mad dash for the weapon, and the boy sprayed the gun again. Greg took two rounds to his leg and went down with a yelp and a thud. Harry caught two in his chest and one in his throat, grabbing at the gaping hole in his neck as he fell to his knees.

The boy looked up. He was blonde, bloodied, with a pair of mangled glasses on his face. Couldn't be older than Chutney or himself.

Curtis found his voice. "Get the gun-"

The boy grabbed the pistol, walked over to Chutney, untying her quickly. She staggered to her feet, limping, but eventually she and the boy managed to get Curtis untied as well.

Curtis rose to his feet, slowly. His jaw ached, but a quick assessment confirmed he didn't have any broken ribs. Chutney seemed the worst off, leaning on him for support.

The boy spoke again. "We need to get out of here." He drew several deep breaths, he had been running, it seemed. "If it wasn't already obvious."

He was too calm for this, it was as if the kid was trained for this sort of thing- but then he would have more muscle to him, so the only other possible explanation was that he had been mentally preparing for this sort of thing for a long time…

He handed the pistol back to Curtis. "Check the guy for any spare clips and let's go." The voice was flat, strained dry of emotion, as if the boy were trying to fight off the urge to break down in the midst of this lunacy…

Curtis hesitated for a mere second before rolling the corpse- Chutney shuddered and turned away- and searched it, finding two clips. The boy scanned the hallway for any immediate threats, waving impatiently for Curtis and Chutney to follow.

However bizarre the boy's intervention was, questioning it could wait until they found a way out, afterlife or otherwise.

…

Gunfire snapped Calvin out of his despair.

Shouts of alarm. Screaming. Chaos. If ever there was a time to attempt this recharge theory, now was it.

His prayers had been answered.

A cursory scan of the garage he had stepped out of confirmed everyone was running to somewhere else in the compound, and, not wasting any time, he took to dodging and flitting behind anything available for cover lest he be spotted, making his way across…

A break room. Yet another sign of a loving god-

Dashing inside and ravaging the refrigerator in a frenzy that would put a starved wolverine to shame, Calvin drank everything not a condiment or liquor and devoured several sandwiches, chicken legs, and just about anything that wasn't spoiled in his rampage, feeling the twinge in his stomach lessen until it was gone entirely.

At the very least, he would die full and hydrated…

Rapid footsteps. It was now or never.

He drew the gun, pointed it at himself.

And in a thought- half the amount of time it took for the guards, holding shotguns and rifles, to burst into the room and give collective expressions of surprise and disbelief, the room was minus one spiky-haired boy and plus one errant moth flittering around the lights.

They left as quickly as they had came, and Calvin reverted himself quickly.

He felt alive now, the twinge replaced with a sense of energy and power. He wasn't sure what was causing the uproar, but he was sure he could make it infinitely worse.

Now that he knew his reserves of power finite, he would have to use his powers judiciously and wisely- anything too extreme would drain him too quickly.

He ran out into the corridors, already realizing, as three men in civilian clothes and bulletproof vests turned to aim their sub-machineguns at him, that he didn't have any plan whatsoever as to how to extricate himself- let alone the other kids- out of this mess.

Smiling and waving with his left hand at the confused guards as he, with his right hand stashed in his pocket, gripping the Transmogrifier pistol, he decided he would improvise.

It seemed as good a plan as any as the three unfortunates' guns backfired, clicked hopelessly, or exploded, sending the wielder sprawling and bloody. The one who's gun merely refused to work gave chase, only for, with another quick squeeze of the Transmogrifier, have his spare clip of ammunition suddenly start cooking off, an unexpected event that had him dancing and flailing as his own ammo seemingly tried to kill him and his allies.

He broke into a run, and any guards who gave pursuit were felled by freak accidents- sometimes it was ammo misfiring, other times, simply tripping. There wasn't time- or energy- for anything fancy.

He had just finished prematurely detonating a fragmentation grenade one guard was preparing to heave at him, turning away as tell-tale screams and splatters filled the corridor, when he found himself staring down the barrels of firearms.

This, given how the day was going, was not surprising in and of itself.

What was surprising was who was holding them- a blonde boy about his height, and a black teen a good foot taller than him. Both look like they had endured savage beatings. Behind them was a black girl who was bleeding from her lip, her eye swollen shut, a mixture of fear, shock, and rage.

When, after five seconds- or five days, Calvin was unsure of time, as adrenaline pumped through him- they lowered their weapons.

The blonde boy, glasses smudged with blood, spoke first. "I need to reload-"

Calvin gestured to a pile of bodies he'd left in his wake, noting with equal parts admiration and horror how quickly both rapidly reloaded their weapons using the spare ammunition they found on the bodies.

"So," The black boy spoke, reloading his pistol, "I'm guessing you're not on their side."

Calvin glanced down the hallway, checked for any more guards. "Nope. Idiots tried to pick me up this afternoon." It wasn't wholly a lie, there was indeed an abduction attempt. He just found it wise to not try and convince two armed teens that he had a magical pistol that allowed him to reshape the world like so much clay.

"Then why aren't you fucked up like us?" growled the blonde boy. The insinuation was very clear, that he was on their captor's side.

Calvin went with a simplistic answer. "They took their eyes off of me for a second. That's all I needed." Again, not wholly a lie. If they had paid better attention, his plan never would have worked.

The white lie had its intended effect, the blonde boy smiled grimly and gave a nod of approval. "You're going to need a gun." He tossed a pistol and its clip to Calvin, who caught them, hesitated a moment, then assembled the weapon, cocking it. The gun was powerful, heavy, more likely meant as a military issue sidearm than any civilian.

As the three loaded up, the girl with some reluctance, Calvin switched the transmogrifier pistol from his right pocket to his left. For the gun to work, these newfound allies would have to remain unaware of its use.

"I didn't catch your names." Calvin spoke, gaining their attention as they finished their grim work.

"Curtis." The black boy replied, rejecting a shredded flak jacket as too damaged with disgust.

The black girl, staying near Curtis as he found a vest that wasn't too damaged, and put it on her despite her insistence he should wear it, spoke after it was set it place. "Chutney."

The blonde boy found some grenades that had survived the explosion and clipped them to his belt haphazardly. "Jason."

"Calvin." He caught another clip tossed to him by Jason and shoved it in his right pocket- knowing the way things were going, it would be imperative he have quick access to the gun.

Without a formal decision of leadership, the four began running down the hallway.

…..

If there was anything Mary hated more than the meddling idiots who rebuked her for her righteous punishments of this generation's trash, it was being interrupted in a punishment session.

Moreso when she was teaching a very rare, very precious example of what a child could be- _should_ be- on how to properly punish someone who had willingly and knowingly abetted those naysayers and protectors of miscreants.

The girl was more or less on the verge of death after her protégé, Barry, had learned how to most effectively use one of her more favorite tools- a combination of taser and baton weapon the majority of R.A.W. called the "Shock Club". It was an ingenious tool, capable of dealing painful concussive blows, along with even more agonizing shocks, which could, depending on the need, be merely powerful enough to stun, or, should the need arise, kill with one well aimed strike.

But Mary did not feel so merciful as to let death come quickly, nor did her student.

Previous attempts at neo-identification, the process by which R.A.W. could hypothetically convert children into the ideal, obedient child who did not need pain as a motivator had all failed miserably- such candidates had tried to escape at the first possible opportunity, or, worse, aided those they were assigned to break down.

But here was an exception to years of research and testing, a child who not only obeyed the command to punish his fellows, but willingly aided- and effectively so- in bringing a near-escapee to justice. She had heard the Curtis punk would have gotten away, if not for Barry's mentioning that he had a girlfriend- who, on retrieval, happened to have the hotel number Curtis was staying at.

They boy had proved a means of coercion, torture, and retrieval all in one fell swoop.

But her teaching- what little she needed to do, besides point out minor things, like where to strike, frequency of blows- was interrupted by the blaring of alarms and sirens and staccato bursts of gunfire.

The boy shared her frustrations, irritation showing in his face. "So, what do we do in this situation?" He had a fair amount of sweat from using the stunclub, albeit he had not complained of fatigue- rather, he had enjoyed the labor.

Her initial response was to tell Barry to keep hammering away, but for all she knew the gunfire was from a S.W.A.T. team.

She made up her mind. "You get her to her cell, lock her in-" she tossed him a blowtorch- "weld it shut. Take a gun."

Barry took the implement, a pistol and began dragging the girl without so much as a question as to why Mary would ask such a bizarre task when it would seem his time would be better spent helping fight off invaders. To another, it would seem he was simply following the ideal that a neoidentified child should obey without question.

Mary smiled, knowing this wasn't the case, as she loaded her own firearm, an MP5. Barry instinctively understood the reason for such a task.

The girl had to suffer and die, miserable and alone, without hope of rescue. To allow her to be saved at the last moment would give the children of the world- and their parents- some idea that there was refuge from Rod and Whip's death warrant, a failure that could not be tolerated, no matter what the circumstances.

They would all learn there was no escape from the consequences of their actions.

…..

Jason was an analytical man.

He knew that their situation was hopeless, and that the best they could do was to take as many with them before they were gunned down. That there was going to be no deus ex machina to save them, no cavalry coming to aid them.

So when the yellow-spike haired boy named Calvin joined them, he thought he was merely offering him a chance to die fighting.

But then, peculiar things, things he didn't have time to study as bullets flew, began to happen. Ordinarily, he would have chalked them up to luck.

But after the third guard trying to chuck a grenade blew himself and several others up, after the sixth gun pointed at them jammed, after the fourth shutter door slammed shut, blocking incoming gunfire, and the fifth fire sprinkler set off over the heads of someone trying to shoot at them, he began to doubt these were coincidences.

Maybe God was on their side. Maybe the place was shoddily built, and had poorly trained brutes who had no idea what to do when their prisoners fought back.

That didn't explain several other things, however. Like how Calvin jogged as opposed to running for his life. How his shots always seemed to be the ones that really seemed to hurt the guards in their way. And Jason was quite sure that the gun he had handed Calvin carried 13-14 rounds.

He had fired 16 before he stopped to reload.

_Later._ He told himself. There would be time in the afterlife to discuss the hows and whats of the situation. Maybe he was just losing his mind as his world fell apart bullets at a time, trying to find mental refuge in understanding things that no longer mattered, trying to find some prove of a higher power working for them…

"We need to get out of here-" he gasped as he ducked more gunfire. Calvin glared back at the pursuing party, fired once.

There was an explosion- grenade. Lucky shot- no way he could have done it intentionally.

"There's a garage down that way." Calvin spoke, ducking to avoid returned fire. "I really hope one of you knows how to drive."

Curtis fired several rounds into a man wielding a shotgun before the attacker could let off a shot or cry of surprise, and emptied his clip down the hallway Calvin had been shooting in what must've been a very effective display of suppressive fire- there was silence after he finished firing. "Let's go, let's go-" he muttered, jamming another clip in, his last one. There were, apparently, no arguments as to the plan of action.

They broke into a run, a sign indicating that the garage- and with it, cars- were close by.

_Almost there-_

He allowed himself a moment of elation as he rounded a corner- they would get out, tell the army, the FBI, the CIA about this place, bring every soldier with a gun crashing down on their head-

Those thoughts of self-congratulation fled when Curtis yanked him, hard, back behind a corner as something screaming flew by his face, crashing down the hall with a deafening bang.

It took him a moment to realize what'd happen.

Rocket launchers. The lunatics had rocket launchers to deal with _children._

He laughed hoarsely. If he was going crazy, then all the better!

The world had gone fucking insane already!

…..

Curtis held his rifle with a death grip, teeth clenched.

They were advancing on their position, the heavy footsteps and shouting gave no false pretenses about that.

He looked to his left- there was an oncoming group of three with guns, laying down fire that made him, Chutney, Jason and the spike-hair press themselves into the wall to avoid being hit.

This was it. Death was imminent.

He was about to say something appropriate for last words- a "Nice knowing you" to the guys, a final kiss to Chutney-

WHAM. WHAM.

Heavy steel shutter doors slammed down in front of both groups, met with swearing and howls of rage.

A miracle. A freaking, honest-to-Jesus miracle.

"New plan, fall back-" he shouted, and no one gave any disagreement.

But where to fall back to, that was the question.

Rockets exploded behind them as their attackers tried to punch through their own defenses.

Their reprieve would not last long-

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. More shutter doors falling down behind them. More swearing.

Whether it was providence or someone herding them into a trap, he didn't care.

The four ran down the only path available as the explosions and banging grew louder.

…..

Sir Father wanted an explanation for why a day of triumph was fast becoming a nightmare, and he wanted it several minutes ago.

It started with being told that the boy named Calvin had escaped retrieval. That alone soured his mood considerably to the point he was certain he was going to have to execute the surviving agent, Clyde, to make an example failure was not tolerated.

Now his fortress was going mad.

Reports had started with the guard sent to break the Jason Fox kid being found dead. Then the breaking of the Wilkins boy being interrupted with the death of Harry, one of his top recruiters, in which both the Wilkins boy and his girl were lost, presumably to the actions of Jason. Now reports of malfunctions of security systems and firearms as the three rampaged around the center only added to his misery.

Emergency shutters meant for keeping out intruders or preventing escapes were being turned against them. Cameras were being shut off, sprinklers being activated, grenades exploding prematurely…

He was going to flay the quartermaster alive for this shit. There was no reason for this kind of atrocious equipment failure…

But as he demanded security footage of the three escapees, it struck him-

This had never happened before.

Oh, escape _attempts _had been made, but those were brought down in a matter of minutes if not seconds with crushing efficiency. Reviews of footage of the last escape suppression were so efficient that they were used as tutorial tapes- a how to guide for new R.A.W. members.

And even gross negligence of the weapons stocks didn't account for the security systems going haywire. He recalled, briefly, that Jason Fox's first retrieval attempt was a disaster- the boy repelled three agents with makeshift weapons and sustained only minor injury.

A horrible thought hit him- what if Jason was doing all this? What if he had some gadget that could manipulate the security systems, a device that could cause malfunctions in grenades? At the moment it all appeared that some divine force was guarding him and his accomplices, but what if the boy was actually some sort of prodigy who could create devices that allowed him to sabotage things from a distance? But the boy had been checked when brought in, and aside from a watch there was nothing remotely electronic…

The clicking of an active camera feed got his attention. There they were, Curtis, the Wilkins kid, Chutney, the bait the neoidentified Barry had suggested, Jason Fox, another kid…

"Waitaminute…" he growled. Blonde spiky hair? It couldn't be. No kid was that stupid, that naïve, _that foolhardy_-

"Identification of the Halgins brat, NOW." He demanded.

One guard was quick to respond. "Main identifying factor is spiky, blonde hair, height is-"

There was silence as everyone else realized the described boy was running around, gunning down guards who came after him with impunity.

A minute passed, the only noise breaking the silence the sound of several guards stepping out of arm's reach of Sir Father, who looked- and felt- angry enough to spontaneously combust.

"I want…" he began, suppressing the need to scream his fury, his voice tainted with barely controlled rage "I want the Fox boy dead and autopsied in the hour. I want the two lovebirds nailed to crosses and burned. But I want the Halgins kid alive. I will oversee his breaking personally."

The sounds of frantic scrambling surrounded him as he spoke, eyes locked on the monitors until, as Calvin passed them, they crashed, one by one, for reasons the technicians, scrambling frantically, couldn't figure out.

There was no conceivable reason the boy could have or would have returned. How had he found his way to the compound? Why the hell would he come back?

Jason had planned this all. He hadn't had any devices found on his person when brought in. He had let himself be captured, told the Halgins boy, an active opponent of these places of discipline, where to find this place- how he had found it, he was unsure- told him to bring the necessary device or components needed to break in, and accomplish whatever they had planned to do.

But if they were going to go through the trouble to break in, why were they so ready to escape? They couldn't have just gone in to rescue two people and break out, could they?

It made no goddamn sense whatsoever, but Sir Father vowed that once he had Calvin strapped down, he would find some sense quickly. Or, at the very least, catharsis.

…..

Barry strained as he dragged the now sobbing girl to her cell. Gunfire exploded in the distance. Alarms blared.

He entertained, briefly, the idea of shooting the girl, saying she tried to flee-

No. The girl had to _suffer._ He would make her see that talking back meant punishment. He would make them _all see_ that he alone had been deemed good.

He savagely kicked the girl in her ribs, making her choke. It was bad enough he'd been interrupted, he wasn't going to tolerate her whining all the way-

Footsteps behind him. He turned, ready to explain himself. Mary had said she'd let others know he was an exception…

There, bloody but unbroken, was Curtis, holding a gun. Chutney leveled a pistol at Barry, rage in her eyes. Two boys, blonde hair, one spiky, the other smooth, held a pistol and sub-machinegun at him, confused.

Barry, to his credit, reacted quickly, grabbing his victim in a chokehold, drawing the pistol, leveling it at her head. The two blonde boys, on seeing this, drew a bead on him as best they could.

"Barry you cowardly sonofabitch!" Curtis snarled.

Barry smiled. He had the upper-hand after all. Curtis wouldn't hurt an 'innocent' girl- not that this would stop Barry from sobbing to the media that his brother had killed her in a drug-fueled frenzy- he could still get out of this…

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a coward. But you know what? I'm going to be alive after this, Curtis. I'll get to watch you and your whore, this girl, and so many more pay for not giving me the respect I deserve!"

"You're working with child molesters." The glasses-wearing blonde boy snarled. "You don't deserve respect-"

Barry jerked his victim painfully, making her cry out, pressing the barrel into her skull. "I think what you meant to say was, 'you're right sir, I'm sorry, sir, I'll accept my punishment, sir!" he spoke in the condescending tone he had learned to love to use.

Three of them glared at him with murderous hate. The fourth, the spike-haired one, stuck his left hand in his pocket, his right hand holding a pistol, slumped to his side. He looked bemused.

"You know that brand of pistol has a bad history of jamming, right?" Calvin spoke, as if talking about the weather.

Barry looked at him in disbelief. Was the boy trying to play mind games with him? Did he think he could psyche him out?

"They have to be cleaned, like, every day, oiled, or else they won't fire. They were recalled, like, a year ago, I think, right after they were put on the market. Bankrupted the company."

Barry blinked. Was the pistol a dud? He hadn't fired a shot- hell, he didn't know anything about guns…

"I mean, you guys saw it-" he turned to the three who now looked at him with the expressions of disbelief and exasperation, "-some of the guns these people use are all third rate knockoffs. You're lucky if they work after a few shots…"

Barry decided it was time to prove the annoying ones's theory wrong, leveled the pistol at him-

_click_

He felt his eye twitch.

_click click_

No, this couldn't happen…

Curtis advanced, dropping the rifle, as did the boy with the glasses. Barry frantically backed away, fumbling for the blowtorch, pointed it at Curtis-

"Burn, asshole!" he laughed, as he squeezed the trigger, blasting his brother in the face with what appear to be a gust of air.

The accelerant staggered Curtis only briefly, who shut his eyes reflexively. Barry gave only a weak noise of defeat- they hadn't mentioned he'd need to light the damn thing manually.

Curtis was on him, breaking his grip on the girl, sending the torch out of his hands. Barry felt himself hoisted into the air by his collar, and pain exploded in his back as Curtis smashed him against a cell door.

He'd hoped Curtis would demand answers, ask him why he did what he did, give him time to call for backup. But all he gave was a few muttered curses and grunts as Curtis punched him, again and again, in the face, the stomach, in his crotch. Barry tried to scream, only for Curtis to squeeze his throat with both hands, shaking him and smashing his head against the wall.

As his vision faded, Barry recalled how he always wanted to make Curtis angry, upset, enraged with every taunt, every prank he pulled.

This time he had succeeded all too well.

…..

Calvin watched the brutal beating take place as Chutney scooped the injured girl up, cradling her. He wasn't sure what Barry had done aside from cooperating with Rod and Whip, but it apparently warranted, at least to Curtis, a savage beating the likes of which Calvin had never seen. Even after Barry fell, apparently unconscious, Curtis reared his foot back, swinging it into his groin several times, before he finally stopped, leaving the boy a battered, bloody unconscious heap.

"Jesus man, why the hell-" Jason started.

"He sicced these people on her!" Curtis responded, pointing to Chutney. "He told them to use her to get at me!"

Jason's look of appalled indignation faded as he looked at the battered heap in disgust. "We should just shoot him-"

Curtis shook his head. "We can't waste the ammo." He took up his rifle again. "How is she?"

Chutney frowned as the girl lay limply in her arms. "Bad. Real bad."

A voice called out. "Hello?" An adult, female. "is someone out there?"

Had they taken to imprisoning adults, too?

Jason snatched up the blowtorch, igniting it properly. "Stand away from the door, we'll get you out." He turned to Calvin and Curtis. "Keep the guns trained on her. Just in case."

It took Jason all of thirty seconds to open the locked cell door, after which he backed away, setting down the torch and picking up his gun again, ready for if the occupant was an enemy…

The woman, however, was clearly not one of the guards they had fought their way through. Disheveled, face tear-stained, while not tortured by her captors as the other three had been, she had not been treated well.

She took one look at the girl in Chutney's arms, and started toward her. "My baby!-"

Curtis had the rifle trained on her as she touched the child's cheek…

"Mama…" the girl coughed.

Instantly Jason and Curtis relaxed as the mother cradled her daughter.

A reassuring scene, to be sure, but time was of the essence.

"We need to keep moving. They're going to catch up with us at this rate."

Jason turned to him. "Okay, okay, but move **where**? They have the garage blocked off-"

Calvin frowned. "There has to be another way out. I doubt anyone who made this wouldn't have an escape tunnel or something…"

It was a longshot, but at the moment, they had no other options to gamble on.

Calvin's heart sank- there was no way in hell he'd be able to save anyone besides these five, and that was if he was lucky.

Then a desperate thought occurred to him- if he couldn't save himself or the others, maybe he could get out the truth about this place to someone.

…..

At Calvin's advising, the group entered what appeared to be a communications room- computers, fax machines, phones. Jason went to work immediately, getting on the first available terminal as the others barred every possible exit and the woman, who had introduced herself as Veronica Miles, tended to her daughter.

It was suicide, using time to try and bring attention to this place, but escape was going to be a suicide mission in and of itself, and if no one made it, then they should at least make sure someone had an idea what had happened…

He smiled- lists of names, addresses, weapons orders- it probably wasn't even a tenth of what constituted this organization's main dealings, but it would be enough.

Warnings and forbidding screens complaining about insufficient authorization only provided the barest obstacles to Jason as he copied a few critical documents, loaded them into the newly hacked email account, and sent an email to his mother:

"Mom,

People who took me are torturing kids, buying weapons. Call FBI and cops quick. Trying to find a way out of here.

Tell everyone I loved them."

Banging from the door got his attention. Calvin shot him a glance as he backed up, gun trained on the door. "Hurry up man…"

With one final click, Jason sent his last words hurtling through cyberspace.

Now all that was left was to survive.

…..

Sir Father stood in blank shock at the warning the monitors now displayed- someone had sent an email to an outside source.

A quick analysis confirmed his worst fears- the data contained on the message contained information about enough weapons deals, addresses of agents, and the children he'd retrieved to bring at least two countries' worth of armies down on his head.

A death sentence.

There was only one option, and that was to ensure that whoever came here found nothing that would provide concrete links to him and the larger part of Rod and Whip.

The consequences for losing this post to a band of teenagers would be dire- a swift death would be the best he could possibly hope for, given who he had to answer to. The punishments would be much worse, however, if he didn't exercise some damage control.

For a few desperate moments, he tried to find another solution, another means by which to salvage his fortress. Finding none, he crushed his personal feelings into what amounted to a wadded ball of trash, and spoke.

"Inform all agents to begin decommissioning sequences. Leave the training dummies behind."

The two technicians only gave brief looks of shock and despair before making the announcement, trying to keep the depression out of their voices.

Sir Father went over to a console, inserted a key into a failsafe device. Before he willingly offered up his dignity, his home, his honor so that R.A.W. and all it stood for would persevere, he would make sure of one thing, if nothing else.

That the shits responsible for ruining his life would know they had condemned others to die with him.

…..

"_My faithful soldiers, you have heard your orders. You are expected to comply, and evacuate. Take nothing incriminating. No weapons. No hard drives. Nothing. You have served well, and if we survive this, I hope to be your leader still. You have my eternal gratitude for helping Rod and Whip further its goal of a world of obedience."_

"_But now I speak to you, Calvin Halgins, Jason Fox, Curtis Wilkins, Chutney DeVoe, Veronica Miles, and if you can hear me, Hope Miles."_

"_You six represent the greatest failings of humanity."_

"_Fox, your perversion of the sciences has led to unbelievable amounts of property damage, even before taking into account the deaths of the agents you caused and the damage you inflict now. That you have escaped imprisonment is perhaps the most damning evidence I have against the coddling government of today."_

"_Curtis and Chutney, your flaw is that you are like so many others- rebellious, ignorant of your station in life, and willing to kill anyone who stands between you and that which catches your fancy. At some point in life, maybe one of you was salvageable, but not now."_

"_Veronica Miles, the… blasphemies you have spoken about 'abuse' speak for themselves. I hope you appreciate the new generation of entitled bastards, bitches, and drug-users your speeches and lies will foster. Hope Miles, you were asked a small sacrifice of pain so that others would learn not to lie. You disobeyed. As for your punishment… I will get to that in a moment."_

"_That brings me to you, Calvin Halgins."_

"_I do not call myself a god, but you, your son of a bitch, there is no other word I can call you but a devil. You sow chaos and rebellion everywhere you go. You encourage anarchy and disobedience. You openly flaunted your temporary evasion of justice, to encourage among your cult of followers more acts of rebellion. You personally have shot dead agents who had no other goal but to enforce order in a world that craves insanity. Most baffling of all, you defy basic self-preservation by returning here after another escape, __**just to continue to cause more grief, death, and despair among the people who trusted me to lead them!**__ For the injuries you have done me, I might have one day forgiven you with sufficient penance. But for the sufferings of those under my command, there can be no absolution."_

"_So your punishment is like the others, and yet not. On your heads I place the deaths of every child in this facility. When you all arrive on the fiery shores of hell, they will look to you as the reason they were denied purification!"_

"_My hand may be the one on the detonator. But you lot placed it there."_

-words spoken over the intercom by Sir Father before activating the self-destruct sequence for Rod And Whip Outpost #32


	7. Requiem For Childhood and Epilogue

Chapter 7: Requiem For Childhood

…..

It would be nice if good could triumph over evil with but inconvenience.

If the schemes of the wicked and the sadistic could be overthrown without any innocents getting hurt or heroes falling, that would be a world nigh-unto paradise, where the very stuff of nature bellows its defiance at evil, where there's always a reliable bulletproof vest to spare, where a few kind words can redeem a villain who, deep inside, was simply misunderstood.

We live in no such world. A fired bullet has no allegiance, only a trajectory, and your only hope is to get out of the way. Good may prevail over evil, but there is always a price.

Being innocent in no way whatsoever begets immunity.

…..

The effects of the evacuation command and Sir Father's final announcement swept through the compound, with varying results.

The grunts, made to labor in obscurity at tasks that ranged from merely tedious to the outright demeaning, dropped what they were doing and ran without a second thought. It was the most exciting thing that happened in months, for many of them. For some, years.

The surviving soldiers, already baffled with how much resistance a band of four teenagers were giving them, received the orders with considerable grace. They felt vindicated as Sir Father offers up a costly sacrifice- if he could find no better solution than reducing the compound to a smoldering crater, then what could they be expected to do? They threw aside their weapons, running.

The newly inducted members of the Church of the Unyielding Rod maintained a façade of calm as their leader strained to retain his composure, but the message in the air was clear- things weren't going according to plan, and there's no divine intercession in sight. When the realization hit some members that their children were to be left behind, hysterical panic was quelled with summary execution. While fear held the remainder in check, it became evident, particularly to Wellfields, any argument about this being part of God's plan was going to fall on deaf ears.

The elite retrievers and recruiters took the news worst of all.

Riley Goabes watched his plans and chance for a promotion crumble as the first church members tried to break from the evacuation march to get their children and were rewarded with gunshots to the head. His leverage on their actions- the redemption through punishment message he was using Wellfields to preach- was going up in smoke with the rest of the compound. Cursing Sir Father mentally, he ran to the garage to secure a place in a vehicle. Sir Father's actions may have been foolish, but so was staying.

Greg and Diane Wilkins, loaded into a car after brief medical treatment, lamenting their bandaged wounds and wonder how the hell things could have gone so wrong.

Barry was unconcerned with the loss of a building, the memory of his beating at the hands of his brother making him livid with rage. He assures himself with the knowledge he will make everyone- those two blonde assholes, that whore Chutney, and most of all Curtis- pay dearly.

Mary Gathwells looked her battered protégé over. "If you ever wondered why we do what we do…" she trailed off, the message clear- Barry would not be the only one thirsting for revenge. She started her car up, looking at the Fortress as one would a dying lover. One message was all it took to bring a factory of punishment to rubble. Joining the convoy of cars, she couldn't help but wonder if the whole mess could have been prevented if someone, namely Sir Father, had been more stringent with security.

The children, new and old, sent doubletime to their cells, had mixed reactions. Some were terrified. Some were numb. Some of the more devout actually held prayer services, pleading with their deity for swift death and a merciful afterlife.

Many of the recent arrivals from the Church of the Unyielding Rod felt a bitter vindication as their parents abandoned them to die, suppressed feelings of betrayal boiling to the surface. To them, being left to die is the next logical step in a long series of parenting failures.

Some who were brought against their families wills wept openly, regretting their last moments will be alone.

In the communications room, the effects were much less diverse.

Curtis gave a resigned "Oh, crap.", the look on his face more appropriate for one who was facing a long list of exasperations as opposed to immolation. His girlfriend, Chutney, held onto him, finding comfort in his grip.

Veronica kissed the bruises and cuts on her baby girl as best she could. "We'll be in heaven, right mommy?"

She tried not to cry. "Yes, baby, yes we will, soon."

Jason sat in mute horror, the weight of the children he has condemned to die crashing down on him. He closes his eyes, and silently begs God for forgiveness.

Calvin's mind raced. He could just simply walk out, saying he wanted one last bite to eat before he died, and use the transmogrifier to get away. No one would know he could have done anything.

No one but him and his best friend, Hobbes. For all his life.

He looked at the P.A. system that had just announced the impending doom. Attempting to defuse the bomb would be impossible, unless the glasses wearing boy was a bomb expert. Even with the transmogrifier, he was too weak to overcome the belief of so many children told that they were going to die-

…told they were going to die.

Told. Not shown.

TOLD.

"C'mon," he tugged at Jason's limp arm. "Come ON…"

"Come on where?" the boy snapped. "We're dead, and those kids are going to die because we tried to play hero, and-"

"So what, you're going to stop fighting? Lay down and die? Fuck that." Calvin walked over to another computer, pried open the cpu, ripped out the hard drive for evidence. "Let's get to wherever they have an announcement system."

Jason looked up at him, the others did as well. "You honestly think we have a chance at defusing a bomb?"

Calvin smiled, an act that cost him untold volumes of energy. "I don't know. We'll find out once we get there, won't we?"

…..

Sir Father walked briskly to his waiting car, slumped inside.

Part of him wanted to go back into the mess hall, find the strongest flask of alcohol, and drink himself half to death before the whole thing blew to smithereens. It would allow him to avoid whatever was coming next, his punishment for an epic failure, and terminate his career on a semi-honorable note.

But it would allow those blasphemous fools one more trophy to hoist in death, a symbol of successful defiance to all the naysayers and the rebels waiting to see some sign of vulnerability.

So he would let himself be taken, brought before his benefactor, made to explain his failures, and then most likely executed-painfully- in the same hour. The car sped off with a palpable urgency coming from his driver, and not without reason.

Two minutes until detonation. Barely enough time for one to exit the compound, much less outrun the blast radius. They would make it- underground tunnels made to occupy vehicles far larger than his would see to that.

His only hope would be with no trace of a compound, anyone called in to investigate the site would only find what would be the remnants of a forest fire. It would take bribes and cover-ups to mask the tell-tale marks the explosives would leave- such was the price of his folly.

_Just a few kids. _He tortured himself mentally as the earth parted before the massive exodus of cars to reveal the underground passages that would lead them away from the blast.

_Just a few kids to undo years of work._

…..

(1:45 to detonation)

Jason didn't know what the hell Calvin expected him to do.

Yes, it was a stroke of luck there was a computer in the same room they found the P.A. broadcast system. Yes, it was incredibly fortunate that it was connected to the mainframe. Yes, it might be slightly better for all their consciences if they died trying to fix things.

Typing frantically, he managed to do things that would have put to shame some of the most dedicated hackers, bypassing firewalls and passwords with equal skill and ease.

Then he got to what he had hoped was an override for the detonation…

CANCEL SELF-DESTRUCT

_Invalid command_

STOP DETONATION

_Invalid command_

ABORT EVACUATION

_Initiating abortion sequence, Sir Father stand by at Captain Override Post 31 for authorization in_

_3_

_2_

_1_

_No key input detected from Captain Override Post 31 within 3 seconds, abortion sequence disengaged._

(1:15 to detonation)

There was no time to find this post 31, or whatever key was needed for the abortion sequence.

He was about to relay the news when he saw Calvin fiddling with the PA controls.

…..

"_So I'm guessing that the world's biggest asshole just telling you that you're all going to die isn't the worst thing that has happened to you today, but for once, I have good news, boys and girls."_

"_We have a bomb technician in the building. He's working hard as he can, but he can do the job, I've seen him work on worse stuff before. Long story short we __**are**__ getting you out of here and then we are going to make the sons of bitches who hurt you wish they'd never been born."_

_(Are you out of your f-)_

_(Hang on!)_

"_But before we do, I need the older guys and girls among you to get the younger kids as calm as possible. I know you've all been through hell, and that by now many of you have given up any hope of anything good happening. But the assholes have left the building. It's just us now."_

"_Hang in there. We'll get you out just as soon as we diffuse the bomb."_

-Calvin's message over the PA to the imprisoned children, briefly interrupted by Jason Fox

…..

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR **GOD DAMNED MIND?**" Jason stood up, exasperation and despair on his face.

"Dude, chill, just-"

"No, you idiot, I! Can't! Shut! It! Off!" Jason picked up the chair he was sitting on slammed it into the console, shaking with rage and frustration, partly at his inability, mostly at Calvin's false promises.

How could he give them false hope, at this point? Did he have no soul?

(45 seconds to detonation)

"You think I can just punch a few keys and save the day? That all I have to do is-" he smashed the terminal again, breaking the keyboard beyond all use, no matter, it was pointless now- "rip out some freaking wires and push the "Make everything okay" button?"

He slammed the chair into the keyboard several times. Curtis tried to wrench the improvised weapon out of his grasp, but despite the pain and his rage and the unfairness of being the false messiah again, Jason shook him off, continuing his assault.

(20 seconds to detonation)

"DO YOU SEE A 'MAKE EVERYTHING OKAY' BUTTON?" wires jutted out now.

(15 seconds to detonation)

"Oh, wait, here's a button, let's press it and NO, SORRY, WE'RE STILL FU-"

(Evacuation aborted, self-destruct terminated)

"Uhhhhhhhwaaaaa?" Jason dropped the chair.

What button **had **he pressed? It was one on the keyboard he'd assaulted, that was for sure, but the keyboard was in non-working order.

Even as he was enveloped in a group hug, he babbled incoherently.

…..

So maybe waiting until he started pressing- or smashing- buttons was a dick move.

So maybe Jason Fox nearly had a meltdown.

The raging assault on the terminal provided a plausible enough excuse, along with the children's belief things were going to be okay, that reality had insufficient objections to Calvin's Transmogrifier-induced proposal that Jason glitched the system just enough to trigger the abortion sequence.

"Okay, new plan, we find another computer, find out where we are, and get like, every paramedic and cop in every state here. Sound good?"

Jason could nod shakily. Veronica Miles was crying with relief, Curtis had collapsed into achair with the fading of the stress, and Chutney with him.

There was still the matter of the prisoners to release.

…..

If Sir Father had made a list of things that could, impossibly, make his situation worse before he had stepped into his escape vehicle to ride towards certain doom, the facility not exploding would have been number one.

They hadn't taken the time to scrub the facility, the protocols were clear- in the event of an information breach, any compound was to be ashes within minutes.

Some of his advisors had suggested placing thermite on all the hard drives and backups of data they used, so that if worse came to worse, they could at least ensure the feds would get their hands on that. He had rejected that proposal- too many ways for an enemy to use it against them, and the self destruct sequence, an emp blast followed by enough c-4 to level an entire suburb, would leave any computer evidence unsalvageable.

That was, of course, assuming the blast went off.

It had been two minutes, five seconds since he had left. Even with the fortifications of the tunnel, there should have been some noise, some shuddering that signified the destruction of the compound. He had been told the blast would be deafening.

The answer was crystal clear to him within seconds- the Fox brat had disarmed the bomb.

Then that meant that every hard drive, every weapon, every implement of discipline, every prisoner they took that they hadn't killed before leaving was still there, unharmed.

The car's dimensions felt smaller, now. More prison-like. There was no way to make announcements in this car, and with a fleet of cars this size, there was no way to get turned around, headed back to finish the job, not without risking being seen by the authorities.

These were the moments that generals, leaders, the high-ups who had failed their men were permitted to die with some shred of dignity. Cyanide. Hanging. A bullet through the skull.

But he had the burden of secrets that he could not pass onto simply anyone, much less his driver, secrets that would need to be handed over to his superior before he was consigned to whatever grisly fate awaited him.

Among hundreds of his loyal men and women, Sir Father felt utterly alone.

…..

In a car, surrounded by the silent, accusatory glares of his congregation, Matthew Wellfields tried to shrink into himself.

How had everything gone so horribly wrong? How could he, who once held such sway over his flock that they abandoned all their earthly possessions to follow him to a new land, be brought this low?

Wasn't he doing God's will, preaching the discipline-

_Torture_

….the discipline-

_TORTURE_

His own mind was beginning to turn on him now, driving him to madness…

…or maybe the comfortable madness was fading, replaced with a horrible clarity…

He had never been doing God's will, he realized. Not when he and his wife agreed to begin Faith's perpetual punishment when she got home from school on her thirteenth birthday. Not when he had preached lies about her to bolster his own message about the virtues of perpetual punishment. In four short years, he had turned his own daughter irrevocably against him, blasphemed his God, condemned hundreds of children to torture, and now, as his congregation sobbed for their losses or glared daggers at him, he had failed to deliver on what he had promised- that at least a handful would be saved, grow up to be mighty men and women of God.

Now each and every one of them was going to die, condemned to hell-

…no. No, none of the children he had sent to their deaths would be going to hell. It would be redundant. If anyone could be said to do so, those children had been made to pay for every mistake they made- or might have made. Or could have made in the future.

The only one who was going to hell, he realized with a vicious irony, was him.

…..

Curtis had no medical training whatsoever.

He barely knew how to do cpr. His most proficient technique was the Heimlich maneuver.

But still he found himself trying to give some comfort to the hordes of injured, mangled children they pulled from the cells of the compound.

Calvin ran from stockroom to stockroom, miraculously finding bandages and splints they needed. He wasn't sure how he found them so fast, or why he was looking so pale and tired, but he didn't find it appropriate to ask.

Veronica had some training, enough to administer injections of painkillers and apply bandages. Chutney was a doctor in all but title, doing everything she could to ease pain and injury alongside Veronica.

As soon as Hope found she could… limp, she brought water and food to those who needed it. With gritted teeth, the child was ignoring her own pain to help everyone else.

Jason worked frantically, finding a phone line, calling in emergency services, cops, the national guard.

It was then that he noticed the six-year old boy in his arms had stopped breathing.

"We're losing him-" was all he got out before Chutney and Veronica took over.

Then the horrifying reality struck him as they desperately tried compressions, defibrillators, soft words and pleas, to no avail.

They _weren't _going to save everyone.

Veronica put on a numb face, moved to the next one, determined to save as many as she could. Chutney followed, biting her lip until it bled so she wouldn't start sobbing.

Curtis did the only thing he could, setting the corpse on an unoccupied bit of floor, closing his eyes. There was no more time for formalities or mourning. Hundreds of children remained.

It was then that he made up his mind that he would see to it everyone responsible for this died.

…..

When help did finally arrive, 32 children, ranging from age 4 to 15, had already died, from internal injuries, malnutrition, blood loss, or infection. 67 more died despite the best efforts of the paramedics who arrived. After the last child had been transported out, 54 more succumbed to infections brought on by a combination of untreated wounds and a still-unidentified toxin that was allegedly used by Rod and Whip to intensify pain. In total, 153 of the initial 633 children held in the facility were lost.

Paramedics and doctors who treated the surviving children unanimously agreed that it was the combined efforts of Miles, her child, Curtis Wilkins, Chutney Darly, Calvin Halgins, and Jason Fox that ensured the rest had a chance at survival.

Bomb squads confirmed that the compound was wired with enough explosives and emp devices to ensure that any evidence, biological or not, would be lost had Jason Fox not disarmed the detonation sequence.

Immediately, the evidence recovered was used to contact parents whose missing children had been found at the compound. Some parents were later found to have willingly sent their children to Rod and Whip, charged with criminal negligence with more severe charges pending.

For those who had their children taken unwillingly, the calls either confirmed worst fears or the last shreds of hope. For those who had survived, reuniting with their family was scheduled as soon as feasibly possible.

However, for those who learned that their children snatched away had died without one last hug goodbye, the calls only brought anguish. There was no way to soften the news that no, the child had not died being tended to by the heroic Veronica Miles and Chutney Darly, but had died long before, incinerated in one of the facility's many crematories used for disposing of evidence.

Manhunts promptly began for Mary Gathwells, the members of the Church of the Unyielding Rod, and men and women fitting the description of the Rod and Whip members.

Faith Wellfields, recovering in a hospital, initially received death threats, until it was made public that she had been a prisoner in her own home, tortured and lied about by her own parents. Despite her physical and mental trauma, she assisted police and federal agents with descriptions of her parents and the members of the church she had seen.

Curtis Wilkins lived, for a short time, with his employer, Gunther, until he was bequeathed his parent's finances and accounts, sufficient to get an apartment. He described his parents and his brother as dangerous criminals, with no capacity for empathy or restraint. He and Chutney Darly, both diagnosed with Post-traumatic stress disorder, underwent treatment.

Veronica Miles and her daughter, Hope Miles, were treated for injury and released. Both were praised as being instrumental in saving the lives of the survivors. While they did voluntarily seek psychiatric help to overcome the trauma that came from their experience, they continued to speak out against the abuses they had seen.

Jason Fox was released to his parents after medical treatment, to be recommended for formal recognition of his heroic efforts. Reportedly, Jason Fox requested permission to personally interrogate any agents of Rod and Whip who were incarcerated. He began undergoing psychiatric therapy at his parent's insistence.

Calvin Halgins described the experiences he had seen at the compound in minute detail to the police, but was uncharacteristically vague as to how he returned to the compound. As to why, his only response was that he had a 'gut feeling' his presence was required. Interviews with the others gave credibility that if nothing else, Calvin had served as a de facto leader and source of stability for the prisoners, calming them down and allowing for the lifesaving efforts of Veronica and Chutney to be administered more effectively. An investigator described him escaping without serious injury 'a miracle'.

…..

Sir Father knelt, blindfolded. He had no idea of the dimensions of the room, its occupants, or even where he was- on arrival at one of Rod and Whip's underground safehouses, he had been escorted at gunpoint to another vehicle, blindfolded, and informed he, to avoid injury, should remain silent until addressed further.

"Millions in equipment lost. Hundreds of witnesses left alive. A complete and utter breakdown of security systems. Utter failure to break or kill high-priority targets. A security system hacked by a thirteen year old. Failure to successfully initiate loss-prevention protocols. Initiation of a group whose loyalty is wavering led by a leader who they no longer trust." The voice, synthesized, rattled off the condemnations like it was reading a grocery list. "I trust you have a good explanation."

Sir Father would speak plainly. That was his last dignity before they killed him in whatever ungodly fashion befitted this sort of epic failure. "All I have to say is that the six responsible should be classified as highest priority targets. I don't know why the security systems failed. I don't know why my men's guns backfired. I don't know how our encryptions were broken, or how a detonation sequence that physically needed to be disarmed by key was hacked and aborted, but I am certain that they, especially Jason Fox, are responsible."

Silence for a minute.

"You are ascertaining then, that it was not equipment failure or negligence, but the actions of five children and a bleeding heart that caused all of this? You are further suggesting that somehow, this Jason Fox is capable of 'remote hacking' to the point he can cause weapon misfires?" Even with the synthesizer, incredulity dripped from every word.

"We tested those weapons. Every other day. If it jams once, it's trash. We hire hackers to TRY and penetrate our security. Aside from everything we had checked repeatedly for any signs of vulnerability failing all at once, I can only assume such."

More silence.

"You will remain in a secure location until we have further orders for you. You will be briefed on further action. That is all."

He was forcibly stood up, turned, marched.

_Wait, what?_

He had braced for execution the likes of which would have him screaming in agony. Acid bath. Eaten alive by ants. But now they marched him somewhere else.

It occurred to him, as he was seated in a vehicle, blindfold still on, that this… this debacle might have all been going according to plan. That was the only reason he was still alive.

As to who's plan, however, he had no idea whatsoever.

…..

"…and that's why I'm grounded forever." Calvin finished.

Hobbes gave him an incredulous look. He didn't ask why Calvin hadn't brought him- that much was obvious. There wasn't enough time, and convincing anyone- even the kids- that Hobbes was real would have taken too much time and too much energy.

"Sooooooo breaking into a heavily guarded compound armed with only the transmogrifier sounded like a good idea to you?" Hobbes' criticism of the idiocy of the idea was clear.

"If I hadn't, it would be a crater." Calvin defended. "And what else was I supposed to do? Go home, wait for them to try again?"

"I'm just saying relying on the gun is going to get you killed-"

"I kinda found that out, yeah." Calvin admitted. The gun's use drained him, there was no doubting that, and the more absurd the idea he forced on reality, the more of a drain there was.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes.

"What do we do now?" Hobbes asked.

"They only grounded me from going outside. Probably because those people really want to kill me now." Calvin hopped on his computer. "They didn't say I wasn't allowed to write, or ask questions."

Hobbes frowned. "You know if you keep it up, they're going to come back for you."

"Yeah. But they have other compounds, other places they're holding kids. And if I'm afraid to speak up, that means they win."

Hobbes nodded. No more criticism, no more challenging. He knew that when Hobbes agreed with an idea, he could count on his loyalty. "I'm going to get some rest so I can stand watch tonight."

Calvin smiled. "Thanks, old buddy."

Hobbes curled into a ball and drifted off to sleep as Calvin began to type.

He wanted, personally, to be done with this, to say he had done his part, and now it was up to the feds to get the job done.

But he knew he owed the kids who didn't make it.

Looking at his Omnijournal, he found thousands of questions, all recent. About his health. About what he saw. About what he was going to do now.

It was time to give some answers.

…..

Epilogue

…..

_By now many of you have heard about the compound. How it was a torture factory for children. How it killed kids, baited parents, and how, when word was leaked out about how bad it was, the person in charge, 'Sir Father', tried to blow it all up rather than let any of it get into Federal hands. You've also heard I was, at least in part, involved._

_Yes, there were people trying to kill me. Yes, they are still out there. Yes, I am afraid._

_But I'm not going to shut up._

_Because that's what they want. For the people they target to be driven into fear and silence, content with anyone else suffering so long as it's not them. And as long as they can do that, kids are going to keep disappearing and winding up dead. _

_There are families out there who just recently found out they're never going to see their kids ever again, because some sadistic pieces-of-shit decided it was fine to kidnap, torture, and kill them in the name of some messed-up form of discipline. Make no mistake- this isn't a protest of a rebellious culture, it's not a noble intent to reintroduce obedience to one's country, its terrorism, pure and simple._

_There's a girl who was beaten black and blue for daring to stand by her mother and speak out against abuse. She's still talking, still spreading the message that these abusers have no excuse._

_There's another girl who suffered at the hands of her father's perverted gospel, called a whore and a liar and so many other things, beaten repeatedly for no reason whatsoever, who's standing up, making it known abuse in the name of religion is still abuse._

_There's a man whose own family betrayed him for a few thousand dollars just because they couldn't forgive one minor incident, even when he gave them everything they asked for. Whose own brother suggested using his girlfriend as bait to lure him in._

_There's a boy who saved hundreds of lives- mine included- who is demanding the people responsible for the deaths of over a hundred innocent children pay for what they did._

_We owe it to them, the survivors, and the families of those who didn't make it to make these terrorists afraid of us. We owe it to future generations. We owe it to ourselves._

(Latest Omnijournal entry by Calvin Halgins aka CalvinOmega)


End file.
